Never Make Promises
by Elizabeth Sofia
Summary: Chapter 8 Up What can possibly develop between two people who feel they have nothing left to lose? Hermione is drawn into Snape's dark life in a most dangerous fashion.
1. Chapter 1

Never Make Promises

Chapter 1

By Elizabeth Sofia

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to JKR. Not Mine. No Money.

August was such a heavy time of year. Severus Snape had always felt this way, even before he'd been forced to contend with his disgust about beginning another ridiculous school year. While the rest of the Hogwarts staff hid behind their cheery anticipation of new classes and students, everyone knew they were just buying time. Voldemort had been rapidly amassing a dark and powerful army for the past three years, and with the fresh crop of seventh year Hogwarts Death Eaters who were bound to be initiated this fall, it was unlikely the Dark Lord would wait much longer to strike.

And Severus was exhausted.

As he gazed at his face in the mirror he hardly recognised the grim shadow of a man he saw staring back at him. Oh, he'd long ago resigned himself to the fact that he'd given up any youthful good looks he might have possessed, but he'd been unaware until this very moment just how far he'd deteriorated.

Lank, brittle hair without an ounce of its old gloss. Watery, dim eyes. Hooked nose made even larger by the sunken hollows of his cheeks. Mouth in an unfeeling flat line. Skin pulled tightly against his bones, a testament to nights spent awake with worry and agonizing fear, and days that were too full of pain for him to even consider eating.

And then there was the mark on his arm.

The physical pain alone would have been enough to immobilize most men—a dull throb that every so often raged into a blinding scarlet stab—but it was everything the black mark symbolized that pinned Severus Snape to his solitary kingdom of hate and guilt. All the crimes committed. The opportunities thrown away. The debts that could never be repaid. And worst of all, the simple fact that he'd had to admit he was wrong. As much as his conscience ate away at him, it was the supreme blow to his pride that still held the fiercest bite.

"Temper gets you into trouble. Pride keeps you there." The words rang like an anthem in his head—where had he heard them before?

Before he had time to recall the source, a familiar voice called to him from the potions classroom, "Severus, I've come to pick up the new batch of restorative draught. "

Poppy Pomfrey, the only person besides the headmaster who would have dared to arrive in his classroom unannounced and without knocking. Hastily jumping away from the mirror and straightening out his billowing robes, Snape strode out of his bathroom, through his sitting room, and up to the door that lead into the small workroom off of the potions classroom.

"Disobfirmo foris," Severus murmured to the closed door. Instantly he heard a click, and he opened the door and stepped into the workroom. He had charmed the door to be invisible to any but himself, so he was never bothered by visitors in his private quarters. Well, except for the occasional fireside appearance of Albus Dumbledore through the use of the Hogwarts' Floo Network. If the headmaster knew where the entrance to Snape's chambers was, he'd never let on. But given Albus' extensive knowledge of all things related to his school—behind closed doors or otherwise—Snape was inclined to believe that the older man was humouring him. Either way, he was pleased with the arrangement.

Stepping into the potions classroom, Severus barely had time to say, "Good morning, Poppy," before the older woman's hand flew to her mouth as she let out a surprised gasp at what he could only suppose was his unsightly appearance.

Poppy attempted to stifle her natural reaction to his pained expression, but she could tell by the scowl on his face that she'd checked herself a second too late.

"Yes, Poppy, I know I'm not a sight for healthy eyes, let alone sore ones, but is it really necessary to remind me of the fact in such a dramatic fashion?"

Snape's words were from the same wry stock he offered his students, and most of the other Hogwarts' staff, but they lacked their usual bite. If he possessed a soft spot for a single person on the planet, it was Poppy Pomfrey. She had seen him at his weakest and brought him back from the edge of the grave too many times for him to worry about keeping up appearances where she was concerned. But more than that, he admired her skill as a medi- witch, and her appreciation of potions that could heal the body and soothe an ache. The ignorant students she patched up time and time again might not appreciate her deft magical ability, but he'd had seen too many shoddy medi- witches to turn a blind eye to her formidable ability to diagnose and heal.

Most of all, he could see that Poppy never judged what she didn't understand. And he knew that was a rare thing, indeed.

Poppy managed to compose herself—excepting the few unshed tears that glistened in her sharp eyes—and said, "I'm sorry, Severus. It's just that—this past year has been so hard on all of us. But you—you're—Severus, how bad is it?"

He sighed as he turned from her, unable to give her the answer she wanted while looking her in the face. Poppy leaned against the large, hardwood desk at the front of the room while watching him gather the potions she'd come to collect. He moved decisively and gracefully, if not a little stiffly and with obvious pain punctuating his every action. It occurred to her that he must either be a creature composed entirely of habit, or one composed entirely of carefully-thought-out actions, because although it was clear he was wasting away, he spoke, moved and appeared exactly as he always did, right down to the small buttons on the sides of his black boots. As he spoke, his hands ran over the multicolored bottles in the cabinet; long, careful fingers identifying each one's contents by familiar feel.

"As you know, previous to this summer, I was summoned only periodically. There was no strict schedule, and mostly the reasons for my being called ran from fairly harmless revels at the Malfoy estate to the more insidious interrogations—but even then, the torture was slight and usually only inflicted upon me. But now...I knew Voldemort was gaining power, regaining strength, but I had no idea it would all happen so quickly. As soon as school let out for the summer holidays, I began to be called weekly. The questioning—the pain—was much more intense, and more were subjected to it," he paused to give a bitter, twisted smile, "I suppose my pain alone has ceased to be sufficient entertainment for him. In any case, the meetings have gotten a great deal larger. More and more death eaters every time. Some I recognize, some are new to me..."

Here, Poppy interrupted him indignantly, coming to remove the box of bottles he'd collected from his arms, "Severus! This has been happening all summer, and you've only just now informed me? Why haven't you let me treat you? !"

He snorted, "You know as well as I do that there is no known method of relieving the pain cause by the cruciatus curse."

Poppy's breath caught in her throat, "The cru—he's back to using the unforgiveables on you?"

She willed herself to believe that what she was hearing was untrue, although her eyes told her otherwise. This would explain the drastic changes in him, why he'd lived like a recluse in his own quarters this holiday, rarely even attending meals. She was used to healing the wounds, burns, and broken limbs he often returned with, but the cruciatus was something she was completely helpless against.

"It would appear so," came the sneering reply.

"The damned beast!" A long pause. "You still should have told me," was the only weak reply she had to offer.

Severus sighed deeply, running a hand through his already matted hair as he brushed past her. Suddenly, Poppy asked, "Does the headmaster know?"

Snape shot her a patented 'what-do-you-think?' smirk.

"Severus, he really ought to be informed of this."

The man in front of her exploded, "Why!? Why in Merlin's name should I tell Albus about this? It's just as well that I deal with it on my own, which, might I add, I have been the entire summer, without forcing the headmaster to take on yet another impossible task. It's not as if anyone expected me to live, undetected, even this long. What could he possibly do? What could he say besides, '_Do_, be careful, Severus.'"

"He might say '_Do_ drop this nonsensical martyr act, Severus," boomed a familiar masculine voice from the doorway of the classroom.

Snape wheeled around and flinched at the stab of pain brought on by the sudden motion, "Christ, Albus! Do you always have to sneak up like that?"

He sank down wearily into his desk chair, eyeing the witch and wizard standing before him, looking like two stubborn students he'd forced to remain after class, "How much did you hear?"

Albus Dumbledore artfully transfigured two fountain pens into armchairs for himself and Poppy, and motioned for her to take a seat. "Since there is little likelihood of getting an invite to your sitting room this morning," he explained, a good-natured twinkle in his eye despite his somber expression.

"I heard enough that you do not have to explain your situation more than once. I must say, Severus, that I am deeply troubled by this."

"Ah, yes. Albus, Voldemort could be steeping tea in my workroom, and your response would be to proclaim yourself 'deeply troubled'," the moment the words left his mouth, Snape regretted them.

Sensing she was not needed for the eminent discussion, Poppy pushed back her chair and made a largely unheard or unnoticed excuse about having to 'organize her stores before things got hectic', to which Dumbledore gave a half-nod, his eyes never leaving the dark young man in front of him.

"Severus. This once, you will listen to me without interrupting about the hopelessness of our situation. I realize you carry around trains and carriages of baggage, and there is nothing I have yet found to say or do to compel you to let one of us in far enough to lighten your load. But whether or not you accept or appreciate the fact, there are people here who care about you very deeply, not least of all myself. If you cannot bring yourself to ask for help for your own sake, then, Severus, let us help you to quiet our own selfish fears."

Somehow, during the course of his speech, Dumbledore had managed to grasp hold of Snape's left hand in his own. Snape found himself too shot to protest.

"Headmaster...Albus," and suddenly he felt the urge to pour out his pain to the man holding onto his hand. As if on cue, a searing tongue of pain licked it's way from the dark mark down to his wrist.

Right. Composure. No reason to make like a repentant child, already played that part one too many times.

"Headmaster, I must ask you not to interfere. You know well that my mission balances on the edge of a knife as it is. One false move, one slip of information on my part or yours, and we are truly lost."

Dumbledore sighed as he stood to go. He'd thought for one blessed moment—but, no. The silkened steel was back in Severus' voice, and the distant intensity had returned to his tired eyes. Irritated, Dumbledore transfigured the chairs back to pens, "I know your bias against wand magic, so I shall save you the trouble. But, Severus, in your uncharacteristically gryffindor-like chivalry, do not forget the fact that you are of no use to anyone if you are killed or driven insane."

Dumbledore made his way to the door, and, not eager to leave the already wounded Severus with a chastisement hanging in the air, added paternally, "Child, I will never understand what you feel you need to protect me from. Lest you forget your more recent magical history, let me remind you that Grindelwald was quite competent with his use of the unforgiveables as well."

With that, the older wizard was gone. Snape would have been deeply moved, if not disturbed, by what the last comment had implied had he not been fuming about being thought of in a Gryffindor context and befuddled as to how the headmaster had managed to leave his hand filled with sticky, sickly- sweet lemon drops without him noticing.

Waking from a delicious dream, whose events curled just around the edges of her consciousness, Hermione Granger rolled over and stretched her toes to the end of the little bed in which she slept. For a few seconds, she was supremely confused as to why her bed was half of its usual size. Then she realized that she was not in the bed of her childhood, tucked into the second floor of her parents' home—she was in Bill Weasley's old room at the Burrow.

True, she usually stayed in Ginny's room when she visited the Weasley's, but Molly—bless her—had decided that if Hermione was going to stay for an extended period of time, there was no reason she shouldn't have her own room.

And her stay was definitely going to be extended this time.

She had expected the summer to be a tad uncomfortable. Her parents weren't upset with her choice of the magical world of the Muggle one—hell, her father openly lamented that he hadn't been born a wizard, but they had no real understanding of who she was or what she did anymore.

Still, if that had been the only problem, she would have gotten through the summer quietly, peacefully, if, perhaps, just a tad annoyed at their parental ignorance. Not really so different than any other eighteen-year- old girl.

She'd expected all of that.

What she hadn't expected was to come home to a house divided. Her father perpetually downstairs in front of the telly. Her mother upstairs with a trashy paperback, waiting for a call from her boyfriend—Lloyd. Lloyd, with two fucking L's. What a completely moronic name.

In front of her eyes, Hermione's two childhood heroes, her beloved parents, had reverted to bickering schoolchildren. The blow knocked the emotional breath out of her. So, before she had to chance to go out on another sickening double-date with her mother, Lloyd, and Lloyd's younger cousin, Spencer, Hermione had written a desperate letter to Ginny Weasley.

Within twenty-four long hours, she's received the precious reply from Molly, insisting that she stay the rest of the holiday at the Burrow. Her parents were too caught up in their little feud to dig too deeply behind her excuse that she and Ron had to work on an independent study project over the holiday. Hermione had at least thought they would point out that she'd never mentioned the project before, but then again, her parents had not mentioned their peculiar sleeping arrangements before she's come home either.

Fred and George, eager to show off their new apparating licenses, had arrived to pick her up and take her back home with them. And, with one last look at the house she'd once thought of as her home, she went unhesitatingly with them.

Rolling back over and propping herself up on one elbow, Hermione gazed out of the window next to her bed at the Weasley's unruly garden. She'd thought leaving her house, her parents--her childhood, really—would have been so much harder than it was. I probably hadn't thought of it as my home for some time now, she mused, idly letting one thought flow into another in a way peculiar to having a lie in with the sun streaming onto one's bed.

Which brought up an interesting question; did she really have a home anymore?

She certainly hadn't disowned her parents—she would, of course, still see them on the odd holiday—but she knew things would never be the same between them.

She knew the Weasley's would welcome her as long as she wished to stay, but, as fond as she was of all of them, she had no great desire to make herself one of the family. There had been a time...she stopped herself. Better not to let her mind travel to everything that had passed and not passed between her and Ron. _Nothing good down that road, Hermione, My Girl._

Besides, all of this disorder, fine as it was for the summer, would eventually drive her to bloody distraction.

Then there was Hogwarts. It was as close to a 'home' as any place she could think of, but it still didn't quite fit. Of course, Harry and Ron were there, but deep in some dull, repressed part of her mind, she knew they enjoyed each other's company more than her's. Not that they weren't affectionate or friendly towards her, but she knew they shared something she would never be a part of—though she could never quite put her finger on what it was. And , certainly, she and Ginny got on very well, but, well, Ginny loved divination, and that's about all that needed to be said about that.

She sighed deeply and rubbed her eyes. It would be different if there were someone who understood her situation. The constant, nagging feeling of being out of place with everyone and everything around you. Not at home with the muggles or the wizards. Too smart, too eager, not sophisticated enough to understand the rules by which she had to play.

Like a song stuck in the back of her mind, Hermione was vaguely aware of something simple and glorious that she was constantly looking for. The sacred something in the darkness of that blissful realm before she succumbed to sleep each night that called to her like a bloodrush. But, as she had no words to describe it, or memories or experiences to liken it to, she squelched it back once again, to live in those hazy moments between dreaming and waking.

"Hullo! 'Mione? Are you up yet, you lazy arse?"

Hermione smiled into her pillow. No need to get pensive or introspective with Ron Weasley about.


	2. Chapter 2

Never Make Promises  
  
Chapter 2

By Elizabeth Sofia

Disclaimer: Any people or events that you recognize belong to JKR, and I'm not seeing a shred of profit.

_There has to be more to life than this_, Hermione mentally grumbled as she and Ginny trailed half-heartedly behind Ron and Harry, who were chatting animatedly as they made their way down Diagon Alley. The few snippets of their conversation that reached Hermione's annoyed ears went something like, "Porskoff...wicked quaffle 260...illegal bludger useage...cannons' comeback year." What had appeared as if it was going to be a completely innocuous day had turned into her own personal and living hell.

"It could be much worse, Hermione. One time Percy dragged me along to listen to a lecture about semi-modern owling regulations. I'd rather hear retired quidditch players speak any day."

_Well, Ginny, that's the difference between you and me, then, isn't it?_ Hermione had no idea why she was tempted to snap at Ginny—the pretty redhead had done nothing wrong. In fact, Ginny seemed to make a habit of figuring out how to appease her bookish and occasionally moody friend. Hermione had several theories as to the reasoning behind this, the previous favorite being that Ginny was trying to get in good with Harry through becoming friendly with her, but Hermione was beginning to doubt the validity of that one. After all, Ginny had stopped mooning about Harry like a love-struck bugbear some time ago. _Besides, she must have noticed the alarming lack of attention Harry and Ron pay to your opinions anyhow, Hermione._

"I suppose so—still..." Hermione didn't get a chance to finish her thought, because she ran into Ron, who had stopped suddenly to gesticulate wildly in an attempt to give Harry a visual of an obscure quidditch foul.

"Hermione! Watch where you're going!"

Hermione stared blankly at the lanky, freckled boy in front of her. Then her blank stare turned into a look of uncompromising fury. "Where I'm going?! If it had been up to me, I wouldn't be going anywhere!"

Ron's face went from surprised to confused. He could handle Bossy-Hermione, Secretive-Hermione, and even Heavily-Irritated-Hermione, but this new Fierce-Hermione left him completely perplexed. She'd always been the type to indulge in a brooding binge of introspection rather than take anyone's head off. But this summer—something was drastically different. He opened his mouth to apologize, having a mother and sister with matching fiery tempers, he knew the futility of trying to argue. But before he could get the words out, she was once again off and running.

"And let me tell you something else—it's not that I'm 'not particularly interested', or that I 'don't really understand'—I hate quidditch. I think it's a boring, pointless game, and I hate it. I hate the fact that I have to pretend I'm semi-supportive of your grating obsession with the sport just to spend some time with you. I hate the fact that you'd never dream of attending a lecture about something I was interested in. And, most of all, I hate that I have to practically physically assault you for you to even acknowledge my presence!"

Ron was the picture of dismay. His auburn eyebrows were furrowed in trouble, and his mouth hung repentantly open. Hermione's eyes gouged into his own; brilliant, angry, flashing brown orbs. Her hands clenched and unclenched themselves into fists that seemed more than merely decorative. Her chest heaved with breath and outrage. While trying to make sense of the substantial list of wrongs she'd thrown his way, he was painfully aware of how pretty she looked while fuming.

Out of the corner of her eye, Ginny saw Harry step forward. _Here we go_, she thought bitterly. Harry was convinced he was _so_ sensitive and soothing where women were concerned.

Harry reached out and gently touched Hermione's arm. He could feel the muscles taut beneath her skin, and he saw how the corner of her mouth was twitching ever-so-slightly. These were signs that he read loud and clear—unmistakable "I'm completely fed up, and I mean business" signs. "Hermione, he didn't..."

Before Harry had a chance to finish, she ripped her arm away and refocused her anger in his direction. "And don't even get me started on _you_!"

Ginny hid her triumphant smile, _You give it to him, Hermione_. She would be lying if she claimed she still didn't possess overwhelming feelings for Harry, but she had grown to the point where she wouldn't even consider him until he was knocked down a few notches. Surviving multiple encounters with the Dark Lord still didn't mean you understood a woman's psyche. Then she felt Hermione's gaze upon her. Judging correctly that Hermione was not really angry with her, Ginny gave her a disarming wink.

Hermione visibly softened, but so slightly that only Ginny detected it. When she spoke, her voice dripped such massive icicles that Ron felt chills run down his arms and legs. "If you will excuse me."

Feeling slightly high from the adrenaline released by losing her temper, Hermione turned on her heels and haughtily went about her solitary way down Diagon Alley, leaving two baffled boys and a smiling girl in her wake.

Ron turned to Harry, brows still knitted, and said desperately, "Now what? We have to go after her."

At this, Ginny rolled her eyes, "Oh yes...I think it's completely necessary to chaperone a legal adult while she cools down in Flourish and Blotts. Really, you two."

She watched as Harry and Ron had a conversation with their eyes, as if she wasn't even standing there. She had half a mind to stalk down the street after Hermione, but instead she came between her brother and Harry and linked her arms through theirs, "If we don't go now, we'll miss them introducing the Irish national team. Shall we?"

Harry shrugged and Ron nodded, and the three headed towards Quality Quidditch Supplies, looking like the friends from Oz—minus one very irate lion.

Ginny had been right—Hermione had headed straight for Flourish and Blotts. She then proceeded to alternately fume and sulk her way through every bookstore she could find.

There was something about books that was unspeakably comforting to her. Shelves and shelves of old friends and new—just waiting to be opened, read, absorbed. Then there was that smell, peculiar to hardbound books everywhere. Thankfully, that heady and distinctive aroma bridged the gap between the wizarding and muggle worlds. If Hermione closed her eyes and inhaled the delicately printed pages of a book, she could be anywhere—her father's study in her childhood home taking in Shakespeare, the restricted section of Hogwarts' library pouring over antiquarian hexes, or curled safely into her own bed while Ovid languidly curled his erotica up and around and on and on...

And so she'd made her way through each store, running her hand idly along the spines of books until one or another called to her. Flipping through the pages, finding words that grabbed her sharp, young eye and held her attention. Phrases of novellas and stanzas of poetry filled up the emptiness left by her subsiding anger.

Finally, sufficed by her literary binge, Hermione allowed herself to look around and figure out how to go about meeting up again with Ginny, Ron and Harry.

And was simultaneously hit with two sour realizations; it was completely dark, and she had no idea where she was.

Hermione idly remembered the sleepy disorientation she'd once experienced when she'd gone to see a movie in the light of the midafternoon and exited the darkness of the theatre into the darkness of the night outside. Her current state of detached panic was cut from the same mold.

Trying to appear confident, in the case that any would-be attackers were sizing up her courage, Hermione glanced at the shadowy buildings that surrounded her. Each of them seemed to sag at a different angle, giving their jagged rooftops the appearance of rotting teeth. The windows that weren't boarded up seemed to be malevolent eyes—or at least hiding places for creatures with malevolent eyes. Strange, decidedly un-watery liquid stagnated in the gutter by her feet. She knew she'd been preoccupied with her own thoughts but really. This dead-end didn't seem the place for even accidental meandering.

Then, like the gift of some muse of memory, Hermione's mind locked on to where she was—the far end of Knockturn alley.

She'd only been on Knockturn once before, and had avoided it since. It wasn't that wandering down Diagon's darker sister alley was off-limits or against a rule of any kind—it just seemed to fall into the "good-girls- wouldn't" category.

And Hermione Granger was definitely a good girl.

But rather than applaud herself for her own moral discretion, she felt that, currently, her energies were better suited to making her way down Knockturn and back to Diagon.

Which would have been simple—walking in a straight line usually was—except for the fact that a large, dark figure was blocking her escape route and making its way rapidly and menacingly towards her.

_Oh gods,_ Hermione's entire body tensed. She drew her wand and concealed it in the white sleeve of her sweater. She then continued walking, in what she hoped was a nonchalant manner towards the figure. If she had to die in a dark and deserted alley, at least it would be fighting and with some semblance of style.

Thoughts, various and sundry, flitted through her frightened mind as she drew nearer and nearer to the form that would shortly intercept her head- on:

_How long will it be before anyone finds me? _

_Should I scream? _

_Maybe I'm jumping to conclusions, maybe I'll just walk right by that...thing...with no incident, whatsoever. _

_Holy, fucking shit. _

_I won't even get to find out if I'm head girl. _

_This is all Ron's fault._

She got no further with her moment-before-dying reveries, because her recognition of the face that materialized out of the dark shadowy form stunned her brain into relieved silence. For a moment, it looked like the tall man _would_ walk past her without so much as a glance to his left in her direction, but just when Hermione thought she had a chance of making it through the night unscathed, a hand shot out of the man's robes and clamped itself on her left upper arm.

Hermione let out a yelp of pain and surprise and the man pulled her towards him and half-yelled, half-drawled, "Miss Granger, I suppose it would be too much for me to ask for an entire summer holiday without having to look after a single maladroit Gryiffindor."

Merlin spare her, but she would have rather been hexed.

And so, like Maureen O'Hara by John Wayne, Hermione found herself half- pushed, half-dragged down Knockturn, onto Diagon, and into the Leaky Cauldron by none other than Severus Snape.

Somehow, in between his constant stream of chastisements and insults, she'd managed to inform him that she was staying with the Weasleys and not with her family. Once he had deposited her in a chair and ordered her some tea, he disappeared, Hermione supposed to contact Arthur Weasley and tell him to come and collect his "baggage".

Well enough, as it gave her some time to collect herself.

Rubbing the fresh bruises Snape had left on her arm, Hermione—for the second time that day—allowed shock to turn into simmering indignation. When she'd first realized the dark figure was Snape, relief had flooded through her body, making even her eyelids seem to sag with the hefty absence of adrenaline. The relief had been replaced by a childish sort of surprise at seeing a teacher outside of the school context. Admittedly, Hogwarts students had more of an opportunity to view their teachers outside of the classroom than students at 'other'—Hermione stopped herself before inserting 'normal'—schools, but there was always something odd about the fact that Snape had a life beyond his own dank dungeon. Also, what were the odds of him being the only other person she met in a deserted alley?

But now Hermione was just plain angry. While she was at Hogwarts, she might be his student, but during the summer, he certainly had no right to treat her like a petulant child. Well, she'd already earmarked this day for blatant honesty, why not tell him as much?

A very easy resolution to make while he was not in view, but the second his looming presence enthroned itself across the table from her, she had second thoughts.

"Arthur has to finish some task he's performing for Molly, but he should be here to take custody of you shortly," the disgust in Severus Snape's voice was palpable and screaming. He appraised the smallish girl sitting across from him, an expectant smirk painting his drawn features. "Well?"

"Well, what?" Hermione snapped. Whatever he was soliciting from her, she knew it would be humiliating and unwelcome.

"Well, I would think that some level of repentance and, or, gratitude would be an appropriate expression given the situation," he practically spit the words at her. Hermione doubted that, given her distaste for the man, she could have shown Snape gratitude had he saved her from a dementor. Intelectually, she knew if would be a lot less trouble to thank him and beg forgiveness for wasting his time, but she was too tired and cross to make the effort to be smart about it.

"Isn't that interesting? Considering I've done nothing to be guilty of, and you've done nothing to make me thankful for your presence."

For the first time in his recent memory, Severus was taken aback by a comment from a student. But, as always, his first reaction was to prove his superiority and weight. He leaned across the small table and fixed Hermione with steely, stone-set eyes. His voice was barely-controlled lightning. "As far as guilt, Knockturn alley at night is an area of great danger, not a playground for unruly schoolchildren. You were greatly remiss in your choice of paths for your little nocturnal outing. And in terms of assitance, I've most certainly given you..."

"Given me these?" with that, Hermione jumped up and shoved back the sleeve of her sweater, revealing a smart set of deep purple bruises and red marks where he had gripped her arm. She thrust the slender, white arm across the table, and was certain she saw something akin to regret in Snape's face. She didn't really care anymore, however, and quickly slumped back into her chair. Hermione had the strong desire to cry with frustration and exhaustion. Instead, she conjured up an image of the smug look on Ron's face as he heard into whose company her earlier explosion had lead her. Her annoyance effectively turned the would-be tears into a smoldering scowl that she directed across the table.

Snape let out a long, shaky sigh that effectively diffused the tension between them. Hermione noticed how threadbare—how old he looked. He'd never really been the poster-boy for blooming health, but the transformation of his sullen features was striking. Suddenly she felt guilt stab at her. For what, she couldn't imagine—she'd been quite right when she told him she'd done nothing wrong. But something in her professor's face made her want to kneel at his feet and beg forgiveness for her mere presence in the room. It occurred to her that this was a latent power Snape had—it was the same overwhelming force that had scared first-year potion classes into seven years of silence—she'd just never experienced it one on one like this before. She couldn't help but covet whatever source gave him that kind of command...

And, as quickly as the moment had come, it was over.

The momentary lucidity that had played across Snape's features once again gave way to typical blank countenance. "I apologize, Miss Granger. It was not my intention to hurt you."

Though still cold, his voice was more sincere than she thought him capable of, and Hermione knew it must have cost him to make even that guarded apology. An uncomfortable silence fell over them, and she mentally grappled for something to replace the awkwardness that had seated itself like a third party at their small table.

"Don't worry, Professor. I won't let word get around that you're capable of feeling remorse."

Severus' eyes shot up, and he saw her give him a small, sly smile. Yes, she was attempting to tease him. Of course, it wouldn't work, but he still respected her effort. It was sickeningly obvious why she'd not been sorted into Slytherin. "So, Miss Granger, if you are so intent on proving your innocence, pray tell, exactly what were you doing at the dead-end of Knockturn alley in the middle of the night?"

Even as she haltingly gave her explanation, Hermione was aware of how childish she sounded, "Well, Ron and Harry wanted to go to a talk given by some quidditch players" Snape nodded, and she was grateful that she would not have to explain the lecture further, because she hadn't bothered to find out who exactly had been speaking, "and they asked Ginny and I to accompany them. I became...irritated with Ron...and left the group..."

"So, you thought you would worry your paramour, young Mr. Weasley, by hiding out in a seedy area for the rest of the day?" Snape interrupted condescendingly.

"No," Hermione continued sourly, "I thought I would calm down by reading a bit," here she grew very embarrassed, because she would have to try and explain her peculiar literary habits, "I...well, I tend to become a bit...engrossed...whenever I read. I'd been reading a volume of poetry..."

Here she trailed off, obviously her mind was back wherever it had been when she's wandered down Knockturn alley. Severus sighed and studied his student. Her eyes had glassed-over, and her mouth was open in a small half- smile, as if she was mentally reciting whatever stanza had sent her elsewhere to begin with. It was a pleasant site, a young woman enchanted by words, but he felt as if he was intruding on something sacred and private, so he cleared his throat and effectively brought her back to earth. "Sorry, professor."

Severus waved his hand, disregarding her apology. His face was once again stern, and Hermione knew a reprimand was on the tip of his tongue, "Miss Granger, how old are you?"

Hermione's eyes widened, she'd expected anything from him but a question. "I'll be eighteen on September nineteenth, Sir."

Snape nodded and his eyes narrowed. _Ah_, thought Hermione, _here comes the long-awaited slap on the wrist_.

"When you are twice that age, you might think of walking down Knockturn alley alone at night, do you understand me? You have no idea the danger you were in."

Hermione gulped and nodded.

Severus glanced over Hermione's shoulder to see Arthur Weasley enter the room and head in their direction. Before he stood to go he fixed the mute Gryffindor girl with a look of utter annoyance and icily murmured, "And if you ever inconvenience me with your injudicious presence again, I will make sure your last year at Hogwarts is also your most unpleasant."

Arthur Weasley's fatherly hand on her shoulder, Hermione turned to watch Snape stalk proudly out the door in a swirl of black, wondering numbly if she'd ever recover from this seemingly schizophrenic encounter with her dourest of teachers.

Back in his private chambers, Severus Snape allowed himself to drop his head into his hands. As he wearily massaged his tense temples, he gave the sigh of a man completely alone in the secrets he kept.

Hermione granger would never know how close she'd been to walking into a small meeting of Death Eaters.

The damned foolish girl! All over some spat with those other loathsome teenaged buffoons. If such a thing were possible, Ronald Weasley irritated him even more than Harry Potter. Naturally, some of that annoyance had tainted his opinion of Miss Granger over the years. Truth be told, until tonight, he'd had no real concept of her as a distinct and cohesive entity apart from the company she kept, or her eagerness to prove her superior knowledge in the classroom. But now it would be impossible for him to deny that she had something solid and glittering that Weasley and Potter lacked—a hard backbone of ambitious pride tempered with knowledge.

And in Severus' extensive understanding of the teenage experience, that was about the best and worst thing anyone could possess.

But it had caught him off-guard and intrigued him.

And given him some consolation that this girl had been worth protecting.

This girl who had caused him to miss an important meeting with his fellow Death Eaters.

An action that, he was quite certain, would not go unnoticed or unpunished

Too weary to even begin to explore the consequences the events of this night would have on his life, Severus dropped back onto the bed.

Just another day in the life of the damned


	3. Chapter 3

Never Make Promises

Chapter 3

By Elizabeth Sofia

Disclaimer: Any people or events that you recognize belong to JKR, and I'm not seeing a shred of profit.

The remaining part of the summer holiday passed quickly and without incident, and Hermione found herself regretting the fact that in little less than a week they would all be settling into the familiar routine of life at Hogwarts. Never, in her entire life, had Hermione felt anything but excitement about a new academic year, but this time...she just couldn't seem to shake the vague feeling of apprehension and regret that overcame her every time she let her mind wander towards the end of the summer and the start of her final year of school.

Regret for the inevitable loss of the recaptured camaraderie she'd managed to establish with Harry and Ron after her adventure down Knockturn alley.

Apprehension for the massive change her very bones and blood felt rapidly approaching. And not a good change at that. Her entire stay at the burrow was tainted with a nearly bittersweet nostalgia brought on by the nagging voice in the back of her mind that perpetually chanted "_things can't stay this way for long_."

At sunnier moments, the revolution looming on the horizon seemed nothing more than growing up and growing apart from old friends and comfortable surroundings. But there were darker feelings. Visions and voices and yearnings that appeared to her in the dreams of fitful early morning sleep. Shaky senses and flashes of alternately foreboding and exhilarating intuition that made her feel like she was harbouring delicate secrets that slightly distanced her from those around her. The curious and lonely part of her wanted to confess her fears and musings to her friends, perhaps on the small hope that one, or all, of them felt the same way. But the larger part of her, the part that enjoyed the long, inconsequential days spent simply being with Harry, Ron, and Ginny, was solidly reluctant to shatter the precious peace of what little time they had left.

So, when Hermione woke early the morning before they were all to leave for the Hogwarts Express to find that a wound she'd received from a faceless, formless presence in her dream was causing _conscious pain_, bleeding _real blood_, she quelled her primary instinct to run shaking into Ginny's room, holding her injured arm out in front of her as a twisted explanation, and simply wrapped her trembling hand around the cut, and hoped that the burning ache would subside. And, sooner than she would have thought likely, it did.

The pain, the blood, the gash—all of it instantly vanished from under her very fingers. Trying desperately to get her bearings, Hermione continued to clutch her arm as she looked around and took in the moon shining through the window onto the bed. A bizarre sense of calm overtook her. A nightmare suddenly making the leap from the formless to the concrete, and just as suddenly jumping back again should _not_ be something she was content to chase away only moments later--but, try as she might to whip up an appropriate level of fear, it would not come.

And, truth be told, she had a harder time believing that a figment of her imagination could cause her physical harm than that she'd remained in a delusional state for a minute or two after waking abruptly up. It must have been a dream.

But even her methodical and highly skeptical mind knew this was only a sweet lie to lull her back into an uneasy sleep.

Ginny had known she and Hermione would get on well the first time she saw the older girl eat. In spite of the commonly held belief that Hermione was science and intellect from her brown curls to her sensible shoes, anyone who observed her closely would be surprised with the treat of knowing that Miss Granger was quite the closet epicurean. At that first meal, Ginny had watched her take bite after languid bite of an amaretto crème tart. Hermione's eyes had closed and every muscle in her face had relaxed as she slowly forked each dollop of crème and crumb of flaky crust from plate to mouth. When set against the rest of the table—Ron and Harry shoveling in whatever was closest, Lavender picking at anything that looked devoid of fat—she looked the very picture of contentedness. Ginny took this as a bold indication of the care that Hermione took with every aspect of her life—and she'd not been let down on that hasty assumption yet.

So when Hermione seemed jumpy and disinterested at the breakfast table, Ginny made a point to speak with her.

This was what she was planning to do as soon as Harry and Ron left them alone. The daily routine usually involved the two boys fooling around on their brooms in some semblance of a quidditch practice first thing after breakfast, but this morning they seemed more interested in indulging in a bit of fairly teenage gossip about their housemates. They both seemed convinced that she and Hermione were holding back on dirty secrets about each and every Gyffindor.

"Come on. Out with it," Harry demanded, toyingly. "Yeah, you're girls. What else do you do but sit there and eye the boys while you dissect the girls? " Ron accused.

Hermione glowered, somewhat good-naturedly, "I will not even dignify that gallingly sophomoric statement with a response."

In spite of her current mock-disgust, Ginny saw that each probing question made Hermione more and more irritated—not that Ginny blamed her. And she knew that she had to get the boys away quickly if she had any chance of getting Hermione to open up about what was bothering her. She stood to give Harry and Ron a proposition—2 juicy bits for some peace and quiet—when Harry's hand flew to his forehead with a cry of sudden pain.

Hermione leapt from the davenport upon which she was sitting and stumbled over the small table between it and Harry's chair, but Ron moved faster as was able to reach Harry just before he succumbed to a convulsion of pain which sent him writhing to the floor.

"Ginny Ginny, go get dad " Ron cried desperately, as he tried to cover Harry's body with his own in a frantic attempt to stop his spastic tremors. Ginny stood solidly, unable to tear her wide eyes away from the horrific scene in front of her. Harry was clawing at his ever-deepening scar, his eyes were rolled back into his head, his legs jerked furiously and he heaved his body from side to side. Ron was trying to hold onto him, his arms wrapped around Harry's shoulders and his legs trying to pin Harry into place. They rolled under the force of Harry's convulsions and it seemed to Ginny to be a sick parody of one of her brothers' playful wrestling matches.

Hermione's voice shook her back to the immediacy of the situation, "For Merlin's sake. Ginny Go, run, just go "

Hermione watched Ginny run from the room with wild eyes. Her stomach had dropped completely out when Harry had cried out—the cry was something out of her nightmares—keening and frightened. And now, with Ron and Harry on the floor, the feeling of helpless detachment was all-consuming. She knelt, her back against the small table, trying to keep the boys from crashing into it. It was then that she realized she was crying. Ron and Harry banged against her knees as she frenziedly tried to grasp them and hold them to her, Ron was grunting with the effort of trying to contain Harry, and her own hoarse voice broke through her tears crying over and over again, "Harry, Harry "

Then, suddenly and with frosty certainty, Hermione's brain cleared. Her terror was replaced by the hypnotic seduction of, _touch the scar_. Like one possessed, Hermione leaned over the jumble of sweaty, tremor-wracked limbs and bodies that was Harry and Ron, and coolly pried Harry's hands away from his forehead. Her gut still screamed, _stay away from it_, but she was governed by the growing erudition that if she could only place her cool hand on Harry's forehead, she could soothe the pain, calm his convulsing body. Still, something gnawed at her that even simple contact with the scar, glowing as it now was with radiant power, would make her the conduit of a sinful sort of transaction—the bearer of momentary healing and half- promises.

But the reality of her hand against the bolt of lightning piercing into Harry's skull was beyond any fantasy or fear she could have grasped. In a millisecond that seemed an eternity, Hermione felt bitter, satiny power slide from Harry's forehead through the tips of her fingers through her arm, and shoot out through her entire body. Guilt and passion and freedom shot through her and she felt as though she, Ron, and Harry weren't alone in the room, but as though an entire gallery of the faceless phantoms from her dreams were standing at her back.

And then came the pain. White hot and deathly sweet and beyond anything Hermione ever thought she could stand. Under her hand she felt Harry go limp and saw his eyes close, but she saw him as though through a turning kaleidoscope. The pain seared through every fiber and reddened the periphery of her vision, but in its wake came a climactic sensation that left every nerve ending sparking and ready for action or reaction. Barely able to breathe, reason broke through Hermione's desire to remain in this state of tortured ecstasy, and for a fleeting moment, she glimpsed the murky, nauseating backing to all of the glimmering brightness. With agony, she wrenched her hand from Harry's head, and the pain flared through her once more, deeper and more cutting than before.

And then it was all over.

Harry crumpled on the floor, Ron looking dazedly at her, still embracing Harry like a lover, and now, Mr. Weasley and Ginny standing ramrod straight at the door to the room, looking at her as if she was about to incinerate before their eyes.

Hermione's gaze darted to each Weasley's pair of clouded eyes, and she felt very drained. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words would not come. Her throat seemed like nails, and even closing her eyes seemed to be like sticking daggers into her every inch of skin. A guttural moan was all she could manage as she locked eyes with Ron.

The last thing Hermione saw before her reality slid into blackness was him giving in to racking sobs.

Staff meetings were a hell Snape would not even wish upon his worst enemy.

As the fates would have it, however, his worst enemy was already required to attend them. _Ah, yes_, Snape smirked to himself, _just when you think life can't get any worse, Sirius Black has to show up_. Though not a staff member, he was a necessary member of the current discussion.

"Now, I realize we are all shaken, and with good cause. But we must not lose sight of the fact that this very evening, students will be returning to these halls as they have done for years upon hundreds of years. Eminent danger or no, we must protect them, prepare them," here Albus Dumbledore faltered, and he sank back into his chair, for once, no hint of hope in his tragically dull blue eyes. "Well, I'm afraid I can't see much of a point in giving the empowering speech I prepared this morning. Still..."

It had been a day since the Hogwarts staff had received the news about Harry Potter, and most of them were still in shock. At this thought, a knot tied in Severus' stomach. Most of them had not despaired this much when Cedric Diggory was killed—and Harry was still very much alive. Catatonic, true, but not gone. The only explanation Severus could find for their complete and utter unwillingness to accept the situation was that the majority of them had bought into the popular "potter-invincibility" myth. This was a jagged and bitter pill to swallow, not only because of his personal disgust with the deification of any mortal, but because it considerably lowered his esteem for many of his colleagues. _Not that most of them had very far to fall_, he mused as his eyes came to rest on the corner where Minerva and Sirius were seated. _The ignominy of all of them_, Snape mentally raged, _counting on a child to be insuperable so he could save him from all of this._

Albus somehow found strength and cause to continue, "Well, I will not waste time telling you how to prepare to receive students into the school, or how to begin a new school year. All of you have gone through these same actions so often you could perform them solely on instinct," his yes softened as he saw Minerva press her hand to her mouth and set her jaw to keep from giving in to grief, "and I have no doubt that for some of you, it will come down to just that—instinct, duty, and your own indisputable skill as teacher and guide. But now...now we must discuss this most recent...situation. Poppy?"

Next to him, Severus saw Poppy Pomfrey straighten in her chair, "No change, Headmaster. Mr. Potter is still completely comatose. Miss Granger is sleeping soundly. I'm quite certain she will be well, if somewhat weak, and certainly completely distraught, by late tonight or early tomorrow."

Albus Dumbledore nodded, clearly appreciative of her cool head and businesslike manner, but Sirius Black gave a low, and still strangely canine growl, "And then we can find out what exactly happened..."

Poppy cut him off, "No. Sirius, I appreciate your concern for Harry, but Hermione is my patient as well. I must request that you leave her alone for the time being."

Sirius jumped from his chair, "But what if she _knows_ something, Poppy. Who knows how long Harry can safely stay the way he is? Besides, you heard what Ron Weasley said '_there was something wrong with her when she touched him'_. You can't possibly tell me she wasn't deeply involved in whatever happened "

Poppy sat silent and tight-lipped, and Snape felt a violent urge to strike Sirius Black for venting his anger on the innocent woman. Dumbledore diffused the situation by simply clearing his throat. "I have never had reason to complain about Poppy's judgement where medicine is concerned, so I must demand that you comply with her request to refrain from questioning Miss Granger."

Black stood, bowed slightly mockingly, and icily chimed, "Yes, of course, Headmaster," before storming out of the room.

"Oh dear," was the only response Dumbledore could muster. But Severus was acutely aware of the hurt in his eyes, and hated Black even more because of it.

As the heart-heavy Hogwarts staff filed out of the Headmaster's office to begin preparations for the sorting feast, Snape wondered what the odds were that he would get any sympathy for his feeble attempts to keep the majority of his seventh years from taking dark vows while The Boy Who Lived lay unwakeable in the hospital ward.

_Not too fucking good, Severus_.

Hermione woke to find a heavy black figure crouching at the foot of her hospital bed. She knew she was in Madame Pomfrey's terrain even before she opened her eyes—the distinctive pungent and healing aroma was firmly imbedded in her memory and easily placed. Not quite so clear to her was why the hell she was there—but she wasn't given time to ponder before the figure advanced upon her. A scream in her throat, she was silenced by the placing of a single padded paw over her mouth, the rest of the large black dog seated firmly on top of her.

Sirius Black

But...why?

In the dim light, Black's transfiguration back from dog to man was even more startling to her. Though he changed forms, he did not change positions. Pinning her to the bed, Sirius Black leaned his face close to hers, searching her eyes for unknown answers, before asking in a whispered snarl, "What was done to him?"

Hermione's mind was a cloudy and frightened mess. She would have registered the pressure of Black's body and his face's proximity to her own as uneasy and discomforting had she not been preoccupied with the ache that permeated every part of her. She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut, willing him off of her.

But Black didn't relent. He grabbed her face in his hands and bore a gaze so menacing into her closed eyes that she could feel it without opening them. "Tell me, girl "

Hermione had never seen this side of Harry's handsome, kindly godfather. She was scared, hurt, and supremely confused. _What does he want to know_?

But most disconcerting of all were the memories in the corners of her mind that she tried to grasp at like straws. Helpless and defeated, she began to cry.

Through her slitted eyes, Hermione saw Black raise his hand as if to strike her, and she flinched, bracing for impact—but a harsh voice rang from the doorway, stopping him.

"Off of her Black. _Now_." Snape's command seemed to bring Black back to himself, because he sat up abruptly and looked at his raised hand as if it was a foreign object. Then he looked down and saw Hermione's scared features and let out a groan of utter guilt and shame. "Oh, Hermione. I'm so sorry..." he reached out to cup her cheek soothingly, but she shrank back with a cry as if he'd hit her.

At this, Snape smiled victoriously, "There now, Black. You can crawl back to the pit you came from."

Sirius Black cast one more apologetic look at Hermione before shooting Snape a "go to hell and burn there eternally" as he made his way quickly out of the ward.

Severus Snape sighed and made his way towards Hermione's bed. After what had happened, he expected she would not welcome contact from anyone, and he hoped she'd be overwhelmed and slip back into her deep and dreamless sleep. In an uncanny instance of universal mercy, she was quickly fading out of consciousness once again—enough so for Snape to carefully lay her head back on the pillow and draw the blankets once again around her. He greatly disliked having to affect some sort of bedside manner, especially around students, and was about to leave, much relieved that he would not have to exchange and words with Miss Granger, when he was struck by a change in the face he saw lying on the pillow in front of him.

It was a change so delicate and slight that only he would have noticed it. How could he have missed it? He'd watched his own physical form change in exactly the same way so many years ago.

The almost unearthly shimmer that hung faintly in her skin. The depth the eyes had sunken into her face. The tautness of the skin over her bones.

Hermione Granger had been given the Cruciatus.

Dark power had run through her, and she had let it.

Voldemort had been through her and back out again.

_Merlin, help us all_.

As Severus Snape stumbled out of the room and towards the dungeons, the burden of this knowledge hit him.

_Severus, you're the only one who knows_.

Miss Granger didn't know. Albus Dumbledore didn't know. No one.

And that's the way it was going to have to stay. In this particular instance knowledge was far more damning than ignorance.

Good, well, at least that decision was easily made. That simply left him with the question of, _why her?_

Only two options really. One, that it had just been a fluke, that the Dark Lord had no real interest in Hermione Granger, that she'd stupidly stumbled into a deadly situation and had paid the price for it. And two, that she_ was_ some vital part of this whole state of affairs, and that Voldemort had deliberately used her to attack Harry.

Of course, even if he'd not originally planned to target her, Voldemort had now established a deep connection with her, and Severus doubted he'd hesitate to use it.

Tired, sore, and overwhelmed by this set of realizations, Snape paused to lean against the cool stone wall outside his potions classroom. _But a Gryffindor? That shouldn't happen..._

Severus groaned aloud and mentally slapped himself for even thinking such a thing. He knew that the Sorting Hat read the minds of the children whose heads it was set upon and put them in the houses they wanted to be in—and then they grew from there. Simple psychology, really. If a Gryffindor is constantly told to foster courage, he or she will. The same a Slytherin will grow to be cunning if that is how he or she is sure of winning respect and praise. It had nothing to do with innate personal qualities, simply with detecting childish aspirations. Perhaps not complicated, but obviously very effective for churning out a well-rounded graduating class each year.

But Severus Snape still hated the damn hat.

As he continued on to the threshold of his classroom, Severus felt himself step in something moist, and, looking down, discovered a rather significant pile of dog shit.

How comforting, that even when the world was falling down around your ears, that Sirius Black could always be counted upon to be a fucking bastard


	4. Chapter 4

Never Make Promises

Chapter 4

By Elizabeth Sofia

Disclaimer: Any people or events that you recognize belong to JKR, and I'm not seeing a shred of profit.

Hogwarts' very air seemed to drip with nervous energy as days slipped by and Harry remained in some shadow world, suspended between the living and the dead. Classes went on as always, but everyone was tainted by a staggering calm. No rules were broken, no house points were taken. Usually the rapidly growing totals of points awarded would have been the cause of wild teenage celebration, but no one even seemed to notice. All of the houses were oddly subdued—but Gryffindor was oppressively so. There were no games of exploding snap in the common room, no jovial quidditch discussions at breakfast, and certainly no mention of the fact that The Boy Who Lived couldn't even move his fingers.

Hermione was sick and tired of it.

No one was more upset than she was over Harry's unfeeling, unmoving, simply breathing sleep—but she couldn't take another day of downcast eyes and pretending that silence would somehow make the whole thing go away. She kept as busy as she could—her rigorous academic schedule and duties as Head Girl allowed her to escape into the library or her private room most of the time—but no amount of schoolwork or labor could keep her from noticing the change in the way people treated her. Students shied away from her in the halls unless they had to ask for her help in the capacity of head girl. Professor Dumbledore and Madame Pomfrey constantly found excuses to corner her and enquire as to her mental health—always in the guise of casual concern, of course. Most of her teachers regarded her with eyes that bespoke pity, worry, or alarm as the case varied. Even Ginny was listless and looked for excuses to cut any of Hermione's attempts at conversation with her short. But worst of all was Ron.

Ron Weasley. Her comrade in arms. The friend she felt she had known for a hundred years. The boy she had been sure she loved. The one person she needed the very most, whose familiar presence would have been so welcome in these endless days of waiting.

Ron Weasley refused to even say her name.

The few times she'd managed to get him to look her in the eye, the confusion and distrust was so evident that she felt criminal just being in his presence. After she'd been released from the hospital ward, Hermione had gotten Ron to relay what had happened after Harry fell to the floor clutching his scar, feigning a cloudy memory.

Actually, Hermione remembered the whole incident with cursed clarity, but it all seemed so unreal that she needed someone to confirm that it had even happened. Ron's account had been short—he'd tried to subdue Harry while Ginny ran for Mr. Weasley—Hermione had watched, crying; and then she'd become "possessed"—she'd acted like Ron wasn't even in the room—she'd leaned over and pressed her palm firmly to Harry's forehead—Harry had opened his eyes and stared at her while he screamed—he'd been afraid—Hermione had closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, as if she'd been trying to latch onto some strong, sweet aroma—Harry had given one final, primal scream and then passed out.

After Ron had finished, he'd fixed her with an accusatory glare, "What _happened_?"

Hermione had sighed, "I don't know Ron. I have no idea."

He'd obviously not believed her. "Fine. Just bloody fine. My best friend is good as dead, and you choose now to start admitting you don't know every damned thing in the universe."

As Ron had stormed off, the only thought in Hermione's head had been "_I used to be your best friend.._."

The only other time they'd conversed was when Ron had chastised her for not visiting Harry. She'd made up a lie about how busy she was with her studies. Ron simply shot her a disgusted frown and shrugged his shoulders. Hermione had known then that whatever happened when Harry woke up—and he _would_ wake up..._wouldn't he_?—things between her and Ron had been forever changed. Even when it's unintentional, what gets hurt will never be the same.

The truth was, Hermione did go to visit Harry. Every night, when she was sure no one would be around. She just couldn't take the questions and the stares of anyone who might be present as she approached Harry's bedside. They all seemed to think she was holding back some vital part of information—the key that could bring Harry back to them so that they could once again truly believe in the magic they all claimed to study and control. And maybe she wasn't telling them the entire truth—but their desperation still made her feel queasy.

And really, how could she explain what she'd felt in that eternity of the few seconds her hand had been on Harry's scar? She'd not even digested it herself. She had no command over the kind of words it would take to even begin to make someone else understand what had happened. So, she guarded her memories of the flashing, probing, excruciating force like a miser—taking them out and looking at them long after everyone else had gone to bed.

Sometimes Harry's frightened face flashed in front of her dreaming eyes, and she felt dirty and alive and lush with power.

Sometimes she woke up, half-hearing a scratchy voice call her name from somewhere unplaceable in her dark room.

Some nights she didn't trust herself around Harry, so she locked herself into her room and gave herself up to the feelings of despair and fear and longing that had no name.

Hermione felt alternately like a pet and a pariah. Alone and out-of-sorts with the entire rest of the world. No one seemed to remember that only months before she'd simply been loudmouthed Hermione Granger. No one...except perhaps Professor Snape.

As opposed to every other teacher at Hogwarts, Snape still deducted points, berated students, and scowled in the general direction of anyone who showed the slightest sign of fear or despair. He alone mocked her, looked at her with scorn, but never trepidation, and, once in a blue moon, praised her as if she were simply another student. Had she not been in such a troubled state, Hermione would have found the fact that Potions class now seemed to be her one breath of fresh air in every dirty day supremely amusing.

As it was, she was simply grateful for the two hours of scholarship uninterrupted by poorly-disguised attempts to unmask whatever secrets everyone seemed convinced she was hiding. As a seventh year, Hermione had chosen three courses to focus on, and they each met for two hours every day. Potions was her last class, after Arithmancy and Transfiguration, and her anticipation of a lesson in the dungeons usually got her through the day. Today, however, Hermione wasn't even certain she'd make it through breakfast.

She was, as always, sitting at the very end of the table. Very early on in the year, she'd taken to bringing a book with her to meals. Eating in verbal silence was rotten, but eating in mental silence had been _unbearable_. There had been a time when the experience of the food would have been enough, but now everything seemed to turn sour on her tongue. She ate little and said less. Every so often, a short letter from her mother (sans Lloyd, thankfully) or father would break the tedium, but they were infrequent and rarely contained much more than complaints about certain former spouses, bland inquiries as to her health, and the standard hope-the- year-is-going-well-love-and-kisses.

Sighing, Hermione turned a page and let her gaze drift from the stillness of her own table to the early-morning chatter of the Slytherins. Envy gnawed at her as she saw them wolfing down eggs and bacon and sharing a copy of the Daily Prophet. Well, she had to hand it to them—slimy little demons though they may be—Slytherins always seemed to possess a certain resilience that the other houses lacked. _So much for Gryffindor bravery in the face of danger, eh, kids?_

It was then that Hermione noticed that Draco Malfoy was looking back at her, eyebrows raised. Hermione quickly looked back down at her book. The last thing she needed today was snide remarks about her shoddy parentage, appearance, wit, etc., etc., etc. But before she looked away, she could have sworn she saw Draco wink at her. _Odd_.

But considering she was the girl who woke up bleeding from phantom wounds, Hermione couldn't trust her senses enough to be sure it had really happened.

Two whole months without a summons. Days upon days without pain, without residual tremors in his arms and legs, without the lingering effects of the Cruciatus on the surface of his skin. No torture, no inquisitions, no having to lie to Albus, Poppy, and the rest of the well-intentioned but unfailingly, cloyingly dense Hogwarts staff.

Severus Snape should have felt like a free man.

But the chains that bound him now were more subtle and insidious than those that previously shackled him. At least he could consistently see through the torture to his twisted former-master's grotesque logic of evil. But he could find no method to Voldemort's madness this time. Attacking Harry and then coiling into silence? Running himself, his every crystal tone and desire, through the blood of a muggle girl? Was it to put them all on edge? Have them shaking in their shoes before he delivered a crushing blow? Re-establish himself as a force to be reckoned with in the front of the minds of his enemies?

All definite outcomes of the attack. And all highly unlikely to be his motives.

In spite of what most of the wizzarding world thought, Voldemort was not all blood and glamour. He was, and always had been, a brilliant and vile mind. Severus knew that the Dark Lord would not make a show of force unless it was meticulously planned and had an explicit purpose.

And behind all of these convictions was the lingering fear over the fact that Voldemort had not informed him of any of this.

Meaning it could be a grand gesture to show him that he was under great suspicion.

Or even that he'd been completely found out.

And then, there was never any freedom from the nightmares that came to him in the fitful, defenseless and darkened hours between midnight and dawn. There was never a morning where Severus awoke without having fought desperately for his sanity and eventually negotiated a bloody armistice with the demons in his head—always taunting that in twelve hours he would again be thrown to their mercy.

No, indeed. Physical freedom bought no spiritual repose for Severus Snape.

To top it all off, he still had classes of frightened and dull students to deal with. The Slytherins hadn't been much of a chore. Unfortunately, most of the seventh years had themselves invested outside of Hogwarts walls anyhow—all looking forward to the bright day of their initiation into a realm of evil so cold and gripping their not a single one of their young minds could have noticed its sting. They would be blindsided, all of them. Dark little bloodied lambs led of to slaughter for a cause that was dead or dying. What a waste.

But their refusal to be shaken by the unfortunate "Potter Incident" that seemed to have bound the hands of the rest of the school rubbed off onto the younger students and made them no less trouble than their usual spoiled and surly selves. The other houses were pathetic in their grief and fear. Gryffindor especially was a veritable morgue of spirit-dead children. Little, bitter fights sprung up between one-time friends. If this was really all it took to defeat the So-called stoic lion-hearted, perhaps the cause to which his house's pupils were sacrificing themselves was not dying as quickly as Severus had thought. In one small exertion, Voldemort had brought the next generation to its proverbial knees. So effective, _Divide and Conquer_.

Severus looked up and down the rows of seventh year potions students. They were a mix of the brightest from all of the houses—no one took advanced potions just for the fun of it. The particular potion they were brewing was quite uncomplicated, and it allowed them some room for quiet discussion while they worked. In any of his other classes, the dim murmur would have sent Severus into a rage, but he found himself relaxing a bit around the students who really understood and cared about the art of potion making.

Then he noticed something strange. Hermione Granger was sitting, as always, as far away from everyone else as she could possibly get—seemingly completely absorbed in the potion she was making. Severus doubted this was the case, since the brewing process was so elementary and Miss granger was an exceptionally bright student; but that wasn't what caught his eye. He became aware that, across the room, Draco Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherin seventh years were watching her closely and whispering amongst themselves. If it had looked like they were mocking her, Severus wouldn't have given it a second thought, but it looked decidedly like the were appraising her—maybe even debating talking to her.

"Mister Malfoy. I can see that you find my assignments less than challenging. Perhaps you would like some extra work?" his voice Slytherin affection, rather than the snarl students from any other house would have received, Severus made his way to the group of whispering students.

Draco looked up and shot a smile completely devoid of sincerity, "No, sir. I apologize for the disruption, sir."

Severus simply nodded and returned to the front of the room. He had bigger problems to worry about where Draco was concerned than whether the boy wanted to play bait-the-Gryffindor. In a week the invitations for Death Eater initiation would be sent out. Since he hadn't been summoned, he had no idea who would be receiving them, though he had his suspicions. And he was quite sure he'd failed to subtly dissuade a single one from going to the other side.

_Chalk up another losing point for Severus Snape, the great failure of the century_.

Nothing to do now, but sit and wait.

Hermione held her candle high aloft as she entered Harry's little room. Moonlight from the open window splashed onto his pale, boyish face, and a summer breeze moved his hair gently over the mark on his skin. _Oh, Harry. Wake up_.

Some days she missed him so much it was a physical ache in her chest. Others, like tonight, she just wanted to talk to him. She'd had such a queer day.

After potions, Draco Malfoy had stopped her outside the dungeon classroom. "Mudblood, what're you doing with your time now that the red-head brigade seems to have disowned you?"

The words were the same as his usual insults, but the tone was different. Besides, Hermione had no strength to pick a fight. She shrugged and sighed, "What's it to you, Malfoy?"

He sneered at her, flanked by the other members of his house, "No need to get defensive, just thought you might be a little bored. Not that I'd assume Weasley ever provided any scintillating conversation."

This was decidedly strange. Granted, Draco was Head Boy and they'd spent more time together this year, what with endless staff meetings and student projects, but they'd certainly never made any overtures to friendship. Previously, Hermione wouldn't have even considered speaking to Malfoy unless someone was holding a gun to her head and forcing the words out of her mouth, but that seemed a lifetime ago.

Besides, she was lonely.

"No, you're right. He didn't, really. But why do you care whether I'm bored silly or not?"

Hermione's concession that Ron Weasley was not a god among men caught Draco off-guard, but he recovered quickly. "_Care_? What makes you think I care, mudblood? I just enjoy deriving pleasure from the misery of others. Or, hadn't you heard that was all we Slytherins are good for?"

Then he'd abruptly turned and walked away, a cotillion of his classmates trailing behind him.

_Had that been a joke at his own expense?_ If so, the world was certainly coming to an end.

Not a hard event to fathom as she looked into the peaceful, silent face of her friend. She was just about to bend down and smooth away a stray hair with her hand when a voice from the doorway stopped her—

"Careful, Hermione. Bad things tend to happen when you touch Harry." The words could have easily been an accusation, but their tone was soft and gentle—a simple joke to gloss over the pain. She turned to see Sirius Black standing near the doorway. Hermione involuntarily flinched as she answered, "Sorry...I was just..."

Sirius sighed and interrupted her, "No need to apologize, Hermione. I'm the one who should be sorry. What I did," he stopped himself as he crossed the room to kneel in front of her, "the way I behaved, Hermione, was heartless, brainless and cruel. My girl, forgive me?"

Hermione looked down at him—a knight from some lost and long forgotten era, and didn't have the heart to withhold her forgiveness. "Of course...we're all a little tense these days."

"It's no excuse." There was a long silence as Sirius rose and they both watched Harry.

Finally Hermione screwed up her courage enough to ask, "Ron, Ginny...how are they doing?"

Sirius had enough tact not to comment on the falling out between Hermione and the Weasleys, and he simply answered, "Scared, like the rest of us," he paused before saying meaningfully, "looking for answers."

Hermione inhaled sharply, "I told you before, I don't remember anything! Why does everyone think I'm lying?" _Because you are, stupid girl_.

"You have to remember something! Hermione, you're all we have."

She took a deep breath before turning to face him, "Okay, here's what I remember. Harry fell down, and Ron jumped on top of him. He was clawing at his scar, and I wanted to pull his hands away from it—s-so he wouldn't...hurt himself. I thought I could soothe it. Like...like a mother easing the pain of a cut with a touch...I touched him...and he...he was gone."

Sirius regarded her blankly, "Something just doesn't fit, Hermione."

Hermione exploded, "Why is everyone hounding me? Ron touched him too. Ron was there. Why doesn't anyone suspect Ron of hiding something?"

"Because Ron tearfully spilled his story to anyone who would listen, Hermione. Because he didn't pass out when he touched Harry. Because getting information from him isn't like pulling secrets from a stone wall!"

At this, she leapt to her feet, enraged that her composure had damned her, 'Oh, I understand. Had I been prone to melodrama I'd be above reproach. Well, I'm sorry, I just don't see how howling and gnashing of teeth is getting us any closer to helping Harry."

Hermione fixed Sirius with a steeled glare and he began to walk out of the room. He stopped, turned back to her, and almost tearfully choked out, "Hermione...please...it's just that...I failed Lilly and James. I don't want to fail their son."

Had someone said those words to her at the beginning of the Summer , Hermione would have broken into repentant, sympathetic sobs right then and there, but times had changed. She felt nothing. "I _am_ sorry about that. But it's not my problem."

Sirius looked as if he'd been punched in the gut, but there were the beginnings of a flicker of respect in his eyes as he left the room with a curt nod.

After he was gone, Hermione was unable to keep the ice in her veins any longer, and she felt the tears begin to come. She collapsed into the chair next to Harry's bed and buried her head in the blankets next to his right arm. "I just...I can't. I can't! I'm so sorry, Harry. I didn't know...and I just want to get out. And I have this feeling inside, there's something coming, but I just can't hold onto it...and I'm ugly and odd and I'll never belong anywhere!"

Had she been in an even slightly less disheveled state of mind, she would have been embarrassed by her odd outburst to a comatose body, but she really didn't care anymore. It wasn't as if anyone would hear to care anyway. And then she heard the applause from across the room.

"Very good, Miss Granger, very good. Had you not completely ruined the effect with your childish hysterics just now, I would have awarded you house points for sheer Slytherin cold-heartedness."

Hermione gasped as she saw Severus Snape unfold himself from a chair set back into the darkened corner. She fumbled for something to throw at him and her hand closed around the handle of a ceramic water pitcher next to Harry's bed. She flung it as his head and hissed, "Fucking bastard..."

Severus deftly ducked and avoided the pitcher. As it smashed into the wall to the right of his head he tutted, "Temper, temper...and language! You kiss Mr. Weasley with that mouth, Miss Granger?"

The girl flinched visibly at that. It had been a low blow, he was well aware of the animosity between her and Mr. Weasley, but he never said he was a pleasant man. Never claimed he wasn't a complete prick.

"How _dare_ you spy on me?"

"_Spy_ on you, Miss Granger? You are gravely mistaken. I was here long before you came in. It is _you_ who have intruded upon _my _midnight vigil."

Hermione looked at him, disbelieving, "_You_ were watching _Harry_?"

Severus Snape cocked his right brow as he answered, "Of course, Miss Granger. Fucking bastard I may be, but even I have my duty to the students of this school. Or do you really believe that I don't care whether Mr. Potter lives or dies?"

Hermione's brain was reeling too quickly to come up with an answer, so she remained silent. Instead, she studied the man in front of her. He didn't look as physically worn as she'd seen him in Diagon alley, but the same stalking sorrow haunted his dark eyes. Deciding she would leave before he had the opportunity to read her the riot act for her attack and subsequent disrespect, she made to go.

"Why did you lie, Miss Granger?"

At this, Hermione froze in the doorway. _No, no, no no no. Not him, too_. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Professor."

Severus Snape regarded her from the corner of his eye as he lazily charmed the pitcher back together and the water off of the floor, "Not that I blame you in the least. There are truly some things it would not be fit to share with the rest of the world, am I correct, Miss Granger?"

Hermione bit her cheek hard enough to draw blood, and the taste of it was a new copper penny on her tongue—but it helped her to maintain her innocent voice and perfect poker face, "What things, Professor?"

As he answered her, Severus took slow, seductively advancing steps towards where she stood. "You know what things, Miss Granger. You may be able to hide them from Dumbledore, from Black, from Weasley—but not from me." Hermione shook her head violently and looked at him with tearful eyes, willing him to stop, but he kept going. "The voices, the hands all around you, the fleshy, tingly light on your neck, the blinding, powerful knowledge. And the control. Oh, the sweet control of it in every vein. And yes, Miss Granger, the pain. Stabbing, ripping, gutting, seering, bitter and glorious and filling. Am I close to the mark?"

She was bound to the place where she stood, unable to move. His face was right above her and she could feel the power rippling from him in tangible waves. Feel his breath hot and feather-light on her cheek as he leaned down to whisper in her ear, "They told you what to do. You obeyed. _And you liked it_."

There.

He'd said it.

And she snatched herself back to reality and tore out of the hospital ward like a thief in the night.


	5. Chapter 5

Never Make Promises

Chapter5

By Elizabeth Sofia

Standard disclaimer--not mine, JKR's--I just make them mumble lines and act out scenes in my head.

_The mists divided and she stood alone--once more a princess in the little kingdom of her dim and searching mind. The clearing in which she stood was completely familiar, and yet she new she'd never physically inhabited this realm. It had been there, though. In the corners of the waking fantasies of her entire life--and here she was. _

_The field seemed to stretch out lovingly to the black, crashing sea in the distance. Thousands of lights twinkled like diamonds imbedded in the dewy grass upon which she stood. _

_The faceless phantoms and avaricious beckoning that had led her to the grassland where she stood--mistress of all she surveyed--had vanished. All that remained was the moorish wind --borne soft over the sea to her fresh, young skin--singing songs of spicy lands that knew no winter. _

__

_And every sparkling light before her hardened into a gem--each one a possibility and future all her own. _

_At first a wave of childish excitement passed through her. All of this splendor! And no mysterious, threatening, compelling voices to invade her peace! Which to claim as her own...so very many pretty jewels for the picking... _

_But then...dread. She wasn't alone. Every choice she made carried with it unnamed onerous responsibilities. Chose one, leave another. One person dies, another lives. _

_Pick a hard one, and you're safe. _

_Pick a shining one, and you're loved. _

_Why her? Why did she have to pick a single one at all? _

__

_Far out to sea, a storm was brewing. Lightning rent the ebony sky and forced her to shield her tender eyes. _

_She felt two armies pressing against her--one from either side. To her right she could sense demands and honor and betrayal. To her left; lust and power and despair. Alone in the middle of a whirlwind. Just like always. _

_From inside her mind, a voice forced her attention back to the glinting diamonds of choice littering the battlefield of her dreams. **Choose well. Choose wisely. Choose quickly**. _

_But the voice in her mind was not her own. Nor was it the haunting hiss that had compelled her to touch Harry's scar. _

_The voice was satin against the soul and smooth ice to a ragged, burning mind. _

_And it bore a perilous resemblance to Snape._

"There now, dear. Don't try to open your eyes too quickly. You've had a nasty blow to your head."

Hermione was vaguely aware of Madame Pomfrey standing over her and of a pounding by her right temple. In spite of the motherly witch's warning, Hermione forced her eyes open and was rewarded with a wave of pain and nausea that made her gag and sink back onto the soft, white bed.

Madame Pomfrey tutted, "I told you not to do that, Miss Granger. Just be still now."

Hermione felt something cool and wet pass over her face, and instantly felt her nerves mellow. Madame Pomfrey must have treated the cloth with some sort of calming potion. But before she allowed herself to be pampered back into sleep, Hermione felt the need of an explanation.

"How....?"

"Hush. You were running down the stairs and you must have tripped. Quite a fall. You're going to have quite the bruise on your cheek, I'm afraid."

_Ah, yet another bruise she could chalk up to Professor Snape's bizarre behavior_. Hermione nodded, confirming that she understood Madame Pomfrey's account.

"My classes?"

At this, Poppy Pomfrey laughed, "It's Saturday, child! Now, for once, don't worry. Please. I've seen far too much of you for so early in the school year."

Sighing, Hermione allowed the crisp sheet to be pulled around her--but she was far from sleep.

Sirius Black had frightened and hurt her with his relentless attempts to pry secrets out of her unwilling mind--but he was predictable. He was all bellow and physical strength, and she'd truly believed him when he'd said he was sorry for laying a hand on her. Hermione had gotten to know him fairly well over the past few years, thanks to many holidays spent with Harry and Ron at Black's secret seaside retreat, and she knew that, whatever else he may be, he was a man bound by his own, decidedly Gryffindorian, moral code. And she was quite sure that, under those rules, attacking a girl was a big no-no.

But Snape was terrifying. He was, and had always seemed, a time bomb. Things that were overlooked with an off-handed sneer one day were enough to send him into a fit of rage the next.

His tongue cut like no one else's could.

And, worst of all, he had a trump card.

_He knew_.

Hermione had no idea how, but somehow he knew exactly what had happened _inside her mind_. His words the previously night had wound in through her ears and taken up residence in her gut.

He understood things about her that even she couldn't explain.

Which put her at his mercy. Not a very pleasant place to be. _Especially not after you both physically and verbally attacked him, eh?_

Peeling the sheet from her and opening her eyes, much more slowly this time, Hermione swung her legs out of the bed and hopped down. Her mind was reeling too quickly to spend the rest of the day simply indulging in pensive introspection under the watchful eye of Madame Pomfrey. Hopefully, she'd be able to sneak out and be back in her rooms before anyone even noticed she was awake.

Luckily there was a great commotion in the next room as a pair of Hufflepuff girls were brought in, joined at the hip. Seems they'd been trying to create some sort of "Best Friends Forever" spell.

_How very Hufflepuff_, Hermione mentally scoffed as she crept back towards Gryffindor tower.

"What happened to your face, Granger?"

Hermione wheeled around to see Draco Malfoy leaning casually against the wall. _How is it that all Slytherins seem to possess the capability of leaning so insidiously_?

"I fell," answered Hermione curtly.

Draco shrugged and pushed himself away from the wall so that he was standing upright in front of her. "No matter. A couple of us are having a...." his eyes took on a wicked and conspiratorial gleam, "_study session_ in the owlery. It might be in your best interest to be there..."

"Okay, look, Draco. I don't know what it is you're trying to pull, but I wish you'd stop beating around the bush and come to the point. What do you want from me?"

To her great surprise and chagrin, he laughed. "Come on, mudblood. Don't pretend you're not curious about what Slytherins do for a good time." H

e held out his hand, inviting her to come along with him.

_Well, it's not like you had big plans, anyway_.

If Hermione had possessed any preconceived notions about what a Slytherin "study session" would be like, they would have been shattered in five minutes.

As she stepped through the creaky wooden door into the chilly owlery, she was assaulted immediately by two undeniable realities.

The first being that no one seemed to resent her presence among them. True, not one of the seventh year Slytherins seemed thrilled to see her, but, all- in-all, it was a warmer welcome than any she received from her own housemates these days.

And the second was that no one was talking about quidditch.

_What kind of twisted safe-haven has he brought me to?_

For the next three hours Hermione felt bewildered, then suspicious, and finally grateful. At some point in time, between the heated debates about Hogwarts internal politics and German philosophy, Hermione had realised she was being tested--felt out by this little group of hard-edged, dark-minded aristocrats.

And she had a feeling she was passing with flying colors.

Early on she'd struck out by feebly trying to insert her intellectual opinion, which had only gained her a few scathing glares and poorly-hidden eye-rolls. But, from listening to the others (well, except for Crabbe and Goyle, who still really didn't speak) she'd quickly picked up the art of packing in a witty barb along with whatever point it was she was trying to make.

The respect from the Slytherins was grudging, but evident.

She was in.

Not that she was any closer to understanding why they would condescend to speak with her, or why she would even allow herself to spend time in their midst--but her confusion was quited by the phrase which was becoming a familiar refrain in her life--_I just don't care_.

This _stimulation_ was breaking up the monotony of the rest of her life, and stilling that which had been so restless inside of her.

"All right, now for a little_ fun_..." Hermione watched Draco pull a worn, leather-bound book from his bag and saw the eyes of the others light up with excitement.

"What's this? A Slytherin bedtime story?" she asked in a coyly sweet voice.

But Draco regarded her coldly, "This is more than you can possibly imagine, Mudblood."

Hermione was about to shoot a ready-insult back at him, but then he began muttering a spell--chanting words so soft and low that she couldn't even tell what language they were.

And at once the air was perfectly still. And then it was crackling with power--the same force that came to her in the night and had ripped energy through her fingers from Harry's forehead.

A smoky phantom figure began to materialize above their heads and everything snapped into place in Hermione's mind.

_Power, Dark, Death Eaters...all of them...me?_

So many diamonds. Stay or leave?

_Stay_.

"Treacherous playthings for children under Dumbledore's ever-vigilant lookout." T

he phantom vanished as Draco's incantation was broken by Professor Snape's black-tinted drawl.

Given his typical favoritism, Hermione suspected he would leave the members of his own house alone after a reminder to be more discreet, but the look in his eyes was scarlet rage.

"You ignorant fools! All of you...toying with things that could destroy us all! Back to your rooms _now_. And as for the pure-as-snow, Muggle-born head girl..."

He didn't have to finish his sentence because the Slytherins had raced off as soon as they could find the strength and courage or uproot themselves from the floor and run for their lives. Professor Snape hadn't raised his voice a notch, never reaching more than a sinister growl, but Hermione had never been so frightened of the anger residing in a single person in all of her life. She was certain that his fury was so all-encompassing that if he focused it, he could strike her dead with a look.

And with the disappearance of the last of his students, the anger seemed to drain out of him, leaving the tired shell of a man she'd seen in Diagon Alley.

He knelt down beside where Hermione was still sitting on the floor and grasped her shoulders in her hands. His eyes searched her face quickly and desperately, trying to ascertain why she was there and what she'd been part of. "Merlin's breath, girl..."

But instead of finishing what he'd been about to say to her, he got up abruptly saying, "Come." before swishing out of the room in a swirl of black robes.

Hermione got up and followed him, feeling very much as if she'd been robbed of all of the diamonds she'd once called her own.


	6. Chapter 6

Never Make Promises

Chapter 6

By Elizabeth Sofia

Disclaimer: It is not my intention to steal any of JKR's profit or glory.

When Severus had been sixteen years old, he'd promised himself that he'd never forget--_never_--just how real his emotions, his yearnings and thoughts had been. How _valid_. That he would never let himself become one of those adults who regarded anyone under the age of twenty as a second class citizen.

All of this had run against the grain of the pervading Hogwarts' mindset-- _shield the children, save the children_.

Well, what if they weren't children?

During his last three years at Hogwarts, Severus had only wanted for someone to treat him like an adult. For someone to recognize the extent of his abilities and potential. For just one person to have enough faith in him to trust him with a reality that wasn't entirely black and white.

And someone had.

Unfortunately, that recognition had come at a price. One he was still scrimping and pinching to pay off.

Still, not being entirely forthright with Miss Granger had never been an option. True, he might choose to be manipulative and turn the entire ordeal into a power play--but never with the intention of taking the choice out of her hands. Everyone was entitled to their own tragic mistakes.

But his wouldn't have to be hers.

_Not now, not ever._

So how do you tell a quick, malleable mind that the right answers weren't always the truest ones? That there were battles that could never be either lost of won--simply fought?

These were the thoughts that chased each other around in Severus' head as he listened to the uneven fall of Hermione's footsteps behind his own as they made their silent way to his dungeon classroom.

As for Hermione, the whole night seemed to be playing in front of her eyes as if through the wrong end of a telescope. In front of her, Professor Snape walked as if he was leading her to an execution. As they passed the totals of house points, she noticed that none had been taken from Gryffindor--even after the little "pitcher-to-the-potion-master's-head incident". _What had happened to her normal life, and when--if ever--could she expect to get it back?_

Hermione was so lost in thought that she bumped into Snape's back when he stopped to murmUr the password that opened the Potion's classroom door.

Snape slowly turned and fixed her with an unfeeling smirk that would have built sand back into stone, "Watch where you're going, Miss Granger."

Before she could stop herself, she snorted, "You sound like Ron."

Professor Snape's face shifted into an oddly amused grimace as he leaned close enough to her that she thought she could hear the angry blood rushing through his veins, "Miss Granger, you seem to be intent on insulting me tonight--but I would hate for you to say anything that you would truly regret. So, do let's watch how we let our tongue slip."

He then turned back towards the opened door and swept into the classroom, leaving a bewildered Hermione to follow in his wake and wonder if he'd actually been making a mockery of his own distaste for Ron.

Once inside the classroom, the door shut behind Hermione--seemingly of its own volition, but most certainly at Snape's command. He had disappeared into the little anteroom on the far side of the classroom. Acting on instinct, she quickly took her usual seat, second row on Snape's right, hands folded on the desk in front of her, as if attentively waiting for class to begin.

When he re-entered the room, he was holding a leather book that looked remarkably like the one Draco had produced up in the owlery, although Snape's was in considerably better condition. When he noticed where and how she was sitting, he let out a low chuckle that would have barely been considered a laugh in another, but seemed downright jovial coming from him.

"Miss Granger, this is not going to be _that_ sort of lecture," he motioned to the modest wooden chair facing the front of his desk.

Severus felt his heart twinge slightly as Hermione blushed--quite prettily, actually--at his remark. They were such innocent and scholarly actions; her instinctive sitting at her usual place and subsequent embarrassment. So at odds with the world she was on the brink of inhabiting.

As she primly sat across the desk from him her eyes darted from the book in his hands, to the charts of potions ingredients on the wall behind him, to the ingredients themselves on the shelves to her left--anywhere but his face.

Not that he blamed her.

His wasn't a visage that was particularly easy on the eyes.

Nor did he expect she was particularly comfortable, considering the situation.

Suddenly, she looked him straight in the eye and spoke, surprising them both, "Sir? You didn't take any points from me for calling you a--" she realized there was no way she could repeat to him what she'd yelled at him earlier, "for yelling at you...or for the--the pitcher. Why?"

Once again Severus was deeply moved by her guileless demeanor. How he envied her that...

"Miss Granger, I don't doubt that house points currently hold a place of high importance in your life--however, I believe there are matters which more firmly command our attention at present."

She regarded him, unblinking, obviously unsatisfied with his answer but too timid--or wise--to ask again.

Still, the question clearly remained in her eyes, and her insistence frustrated him. "And furthermore, my decisions to award or deduct points are entirely my own. I do not owe you any justifications."

_Because I said so_.

If Hermione was put off by his lack of explanation, she didn't show it. They sat in silence, each recalling a time they'd previously regarded each other across a wooden tabletop. And how different the air had been that it was now.

Severus vainly searched her face, trying to find the slightest trace of the fiery, bookish student he'd seen that night. But that girl was gone. He knew Hermione Granger would never be that girl again.

_Why? Why do they always get broken while I stand by and watch it happening?_

"You never did answer my question, Miss Granger? Why did you lie?"

Dark eyes met darker ones as Hermione locked his gaze squarely and without shame. The carefully affected pride in her voice just barely faltered as she answered him, "Sir, I think that before I explain myself to you, you do owe me at least one honest answer--how did you know?"

Professor Snape looked at her for a pregnant moment, small eternities passing through the charged air between them. When he spoke it was with a calm, low sound that made her think she had never truly heard his voice until this night, "Is that your true question, Miss Granger?"

His sudden gentleness stripped her defenses even more than had his awesome power, and she was unable to maintain eye contact.

Her gaze dropped to her hands--hands she'd always hated. So small and square--better fitted for rutting in the dirt or kneading bread dough than the graceful academic pursuits to which she devoted herself so desperately. Her pinky finger was ink-stained and all of her nails were ragged--hardly the mark of a classy young woman. The sight drove her feelings of inadequacy and awkwardness even further home. _Am I forever destined to be eleven years old in the presence of this man?_

Tremulously, cautiously now, "Professor...Sir, what's happening to me?"

Disarming and terrifying. Hadn't his been what he prayed for--the power to keep another student from becoming nothing more than an empty, blackened shell? Why did he suddenly feel so helpless in the face of this? _You aren't eleven anymore, Severus_.

But he'd planned on how he'd deal with a Malfoy, a Parkinson, a Goyle-- never a Granger.

_Err on the side of kindness, and she'll never be able to handle the now inevitable_.

_Err on the side of cruelty, and she'll never trust anyone again._

His voice soft, but black, "I'm not here to sort out your life for you, Miss Granger. However, I'm quite certain I can provide you with some valuable...insight...if, that is, you are willing to cooperate with me," a pause, "So, once again, I must ask you to answer my question before I can attempt to satisfy yours."

Part of her was willing to barter anything just for the possibility of getting an answer from him--_from anyone_--but a larger part of her realized that as long as she held out on giving him any information, there was no way she could be completely vulnerable. She had no idea how he knew what he already did about what had happened to her, but it was obvious he needed more. As long as she didn't tell him, she was a player rather than a pawn.

Head up, eyes bright, voice steady, "Why should I?"

_You want reasons, Miss Granger? Fine, I'll give you reasons._

"Your pettiness is an uncultured as it is unappreciated. You are, of course, perfectly welcome to keep silent, in which case, I feel duty-bound to inform you, your life _will_ fall to pieces. You let your own selfishness take over now, and Harry Potter will never wake up. You will lose your youth, your freedom, your _soul_ to an evil greater than any you knew existed. You will be friendless, helpless, and alone--and you will understand _none_ of it. So, by all means, keep engaging me in this childish battle of wills, Miss Granger. But I assure you, you will lose."

As he spoke, Severus stood up and made his way to the classroom door. He opened it and extended his hand, politely showing her the way out if she refused to make a timely confession.

He'd made no apologies about pointing out her ignorance, but he didn't seem to be lording it over her either. She already felt about two feet tall. _What have you got to lose?_

Severus' stony expression didn't give a centimeter, but his mind was reeling and calling upon every deity it could latch on to that she was as smart and hard as he thought.

No dramatics, only a small sigh and then, "Where...how do I begin?"

_Hermione, my dearest, thou never spokest to better purpose_.

Here, following a silken cord of inspiration, Severus remained silent and crossed to sit in her usual seat--the same one she'd occupied only minutes earlier. _Seems like lifetimes_.

Hermione had never been so grateful that she didn't have to look at someone while she spoke to them. She didn't move from where she sat in her chair, but as she began, she could feel Professor Snape's eyes on her back.

"Ever since I can remember, I've had this dream. Sometimes it's the whole thing, sometimes just parts. I'm on an endless path--the path cuts through all different places--forests, deserts, ice covered highways..."

As she spoke, Severus caught his breath. He knew that path. Knew each one of its intimate footfalls. Knew where it wound and how it felt when it got rocky. He'd walked that path in so many dreams he'd long ago lost count.

"...I woke up, and I was sure I was bleeding. I grabbed it...not so much because it hurt...but I needed to feel my own blood...needed to know it hadn't frozen on its way back to my heart..."

His skin tingled and his stomach lurched with fear for this pupil whose small back bent in front of him under the weight of her own story. _Finish it, Miss Granger_. He thought, wryly. _Then the wound disappeared_.

"...and then it was gone..."

_Gods, oh gods_.

"...and I put my hand on his scar...gods...I felt..."

Hermione let out a whimper that was such a mix of pain and longing that it sounded nearly orgasmic.

Severus blocked out the rest of the story--he knew it all too well. Every word she'd said had been a dagger in his own memory. So long ago...but pain so easily brought to the surface.

He then registered that the girl had been silent for some time, her body language betraying her exhaustion. Efficiently, but carefully, he stood and walked to his desk, his hand running lightly and reassuringly over her shoulder as he passed. Severus was unaccustomed to comforting students through even the slightest of casual touches, so he hoped he hadn't been remiss in his gentle physical reminder that she was not alone.

When her only response was to lift up her head and fix eyes so full of confusion and hope upon him, he quickly retrieved two small brandy snifters and splashed liberal amounts of chocolate liqueur into both. He then returned to his desk chair and placed one of the smooth, but decidedly potent drinks in front of her. Swirling the other with a languid, left- handed motion, he explained, "If you can share that with me, you can certainly share a drink with me."

He raised his glass in the parody of a toast, and she reciprocated. Neither one of them had any idea what is was they were drinking to, but it didn't seem like anything pleasant.

Snape cleared his throat, "If I might press you for yet another display of honesty--why didn't you tell anyone?"

This was, of course, the exact question Hermione, herself had been pondering ever since she awoke in the hospital ward. The only conclusion she'd reached sounded unendingly lame, but she figured it was better than nothing. "I didn't think I was supposed to."

Professor Snape nodded, and Hermione was acutely aware, as she hadn't been before, of the way he inhaled deeply while he pondered his next selection of words. Yes, this was something he always did--in the capacity of instructor just the same as in conversation. She began to feel dizzy and realized she'd been holding her breath as she studied him. She let it out in a long, shaky sigh and took a quick gulp from her snifter. The liqueur coated her throat and brought a not entirely unpleasant ache to her empty stomach.

Incorrectly identifying her sigh as a sign that she'd not given the full reason for her silence, Snape fixed her with insistent and unwavering eyes, "And?"

The quick buzz that the alcohol brought to her frayed nerves and virgin bloodstream made her more adamant as she spoke the words she'd promised herself she'd hide until she was fifteen years past the grave, "Because it was _mine_! Because if I didn't say anything I thought I could have one memory that no one could take from me. That no one could judge or explain away. That I could pretend that it came from inside of me..."

Severus could see the tears and rage collecting behind her hooded eyes, and was going to stop her, but she stood, splashing the syrupy, chocolate liquid from her glass onto her diminutive right hand as she brought the snifter down, hard, on the desk in front of her.

"And now it's gone! All of it--it's not fair--"

If there was one thing Severus Snape couldn't stand, it was hysteria. He stood, once more towering over the nearly frenzied Gryffindor, and bellowed, "Miss Granger, compose yourself and _sit down_!"

After hearing Snape speak in hushed, soothing tones, Hermione had nearly forgotten just how forceful he could be. Gulping and wiping her wet hand on the front of her robes, Hermione sat back down.

Snape gave a snort, but remained standing, "I am not your father, Miss Granger, and I trust I will not have to raise my voice to you again."

Hermione bristled at both his condescension and the mention of the parent she hadn't heard from in weeks, but remained quiet, eyes focused blazingly on the center of Snape's chest, defiantly refusing to look him in the eye. _The nerve! To put me through this and then scold me...it's Knockturn Alley all over again..._

Snape continued, "And, Merlin's sake, girl! Don't wipe your hand on your robes like a slovenly child."

He produced a handkerchief which she used to sulkily dab at the damp spots in her lap.

Severus hadn't wanted to yell at her, but he knew that they were far from done with the discussion they were ensconced in, and he couldn't risk her burning out too soon. He sat down and doggedly pressed on, "Miss Granger, one last question..."

"No! _No more questions_ until I get an answer! What the hell is going on, and how do you know about any of it!"

Much to her surprise and pleasure, Snape gave an acquiescing nod. Eyes wearily closed and hands steepled in front of him, he began a tale that would change the universe.

"Miss Granger, there are things about me you could not possibly know--"

And here it all snapped together for her--everything that had happened after the Tri-wizzard tournament, the drawn look in his eyes in the Leaky Cauldron, his comments when he surprised her at Harry's bedside, the leather bound volume on the desk between them. Her eyes full for the reality of the man who spoke so monotonously of a horror beyond words, she breathed in the presence of her unlikely kindred and knew she was not alone.

"...And so, you see, Miss Granger, when I saw you in the hospital ward, I knew immediately what had happened."

Hermione knew that his story would have resounded within her bones had he not uttered a single word. But the realization still left her breathless with unasked questions. "The cruciatus? But I don't understand...how could I not have known...?"

Here, Snape laughed. A sound harsh enough to make her flinch. "And everyone seems so surprised that I'm desperate to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts...had I been teaching, there'd have been no way the fact would have escaped you."

A puzzle, this man was.

"But...Professor..why didn't you?"

"Tell you?" He paused to open his eyes and look at her. "I thought it might have been a fluke...I wanted to spare you."

He hadn't realized that shielding her had been his motivation until the words were out of his own mouth. A stab of hot shame shot through him. _Never were good at keeping promises, even to yourself, eh, old boy?_

She seemed to accept it as a valid excuse, and simply nodded, roughly acknowledging his answer. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Which only leaves one more question--what were you doing with Draco in the owlery tonight?"

Hermione was startled by his inquiry. After all that had been said and shared that evening, why did he still care about an infraction of the rules?

"I left the hospital ward, and on my way back to Gryffindor tower, Dracio invited me to come along on the seventh-year Slytherins'," she paused, trying to remember the word he had used, "..._study session_."

"And you, a Gryffindor, went with the Slytherins?"

Hermione laughed, hers sounding nearly as harsh as his had sounded earlier, "Yes, well, I'm sure you've noticed I don't have a lot of Gryffindor activities filling up my calendar these days..."

She'd meant it to be a joke, though, she would admit, a rather bitter one, but Snape exploded. "I see! Dabble in the Dark Arts for a weekend release? Is evil your drug of choice now, Miss Granger? Have you calmed your all- encompassing sense of _ennui_ in a bath of blood?"

Hermione shrank back from his wrath. She was still defenseless against his tendency to slide unexpectedly from protective brother to jarring inquisitor. "I didn't mean for...I had no idea!"

And once again the beast that raged inside Severus Snape quieted. He sank back into the chair, took a pensive sip from his glass, and passed a long, slender hand over his weary eyes. "I'm sorry, Miss Granger. I had no right to lose my temper. Of course, you're lonely...I should have known. You've given up much...and none of it of your own accord...yet."

The tone he wove into his delivery of that last word stopped Hermione's heart. What was he asking of her?

Snape continued, "You must understand that your invitation to join the students of my house is--most disturbing. You see, no muggle-born has ever been involved in..."

In spite of the adrenaline that now inhabited Hermione's every cell, a long yawn escaped her parted lips.

"Miss Granger, you are dead tired. I can save my explanation of the mindset of Death Eaters and Slytherin internal politics for another time..."

_Another time_? What more was there to say? "Professor, I suppose we should speak to the Headmaster tomorrow?"

Severus looked at the girl in front of him--she still didn't understand, did she? "Miss Granger...I don't think we should tell Dumbledore at all."

"What?!"

He sighed, "I do not think he would approve of your being trained in the Dark Arts--"

"Trained in the--?"

"Yes...how else will you combat them?"

_Of course, it made perfect sense, but..._

Hermione looked at him, the question in her eyes so evident that she didn't have to voice it--_can't I just lock myself in my room, not talk to Draco, and wait for this all to go away?_

Severus mustered a small smile for her innocent benefit, "I'm afraid it doesn't work that way, Miss Granger. I know you didn't choose it, but you can't have the dark power and then just say 'no' and walk away. Either you decide to destroy it, or it destroys you."

"What if I ignore it?"

Severus Snape looked at her for a long time, trying to memorize the youthful lines of her face before he had to destroy all that was left of her childhood in one breath. "Do you want Harry to live?"

And he saw it sink into her skin, the reality of the situation. That through no fault of her own, she was the conduit for destruction and salvation. The pain and pride he felt for the nod she gave him was only overpowered by the overwhelming sadness that struck him as he saw her age five years in five seconds.

And then--the silence after the decision had been made, the pact signed and sealed, her childhood dreams burnt with one swift vow.

And she spoke, "I came to the end of the path last night. There were diamonds."

He watched her rise to go, a young girl with the walk of a queen. He knew all to well. His diamonds had long since turned black.

Hermione walked to the door, feeling the weight of the world with every step. She turned to bid goodnight to Snape, and was floored by the look on his face--as full of empathy as it was lacking pity.

Later on, she'd hate the world and everything in it, especially him--and she'd remember that look and forgive everything that had been said and done in the name of almighty duty.

Remembering himself, Severus rose and said, "Miss Granger, wait a minute, please."

He rummaged quickly on a shelf before laying his hands on the brown paper parcel he'd been searching for. He crossed to her and placed it in her open hands. "I know it's a little late, but I believe you turned eighteen this year."

Hermione looked up at him, disbelieving. _My birthday? How could I have forgotten my own birthday?_

No one else had remembered. Until now.

"Thank you sir. May I--may I open it?"

Severus nodded, acutely aware of how eager he was that she be pleased with it. He hadn't had many good birthdays, so they always seemed especially important to him.

Hermione's hands shook only slightly as she gently pulled back the paper.

Snape suddenly realized how awkward the situation was, and coldly stalked back to the small side-room, tossing a casual, "I remembered you saying you liked to read," over his shoulder.

Professor Snape did not look back at her, or even say goodnight, but Hermione couldn't help but smile in the direction he'd left, clutching the precious copy of Candide close to her chest.

Author's Notes: I'm hoping I kept them in character for this scene, as it's been one that's been giving me writer's nightmares for a while!

_The young girl with the walk of a queen_, is from Yeats' Cathleen Ni Houlihan, and incredible play about Irish myth and politics.

_Hermione, my dearest, thou never spokest to better purpose_, is from Shakespeare's The Winter's Tale

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, it means so much to me!


	7. Chapter 7

Never Make Promises

Chapter 7

By Elizabeth Sofia

See previous chapters for disclaimers to cover my ass

Fall was wrapping itself around Hogwarts, the stalwart stone wall of the school at last unable to keep the chilly, howling winds from finding a way into its warm core. Albus Dumbledore had just closed his door behind the familiar form of Minerva McGonagall.  
  
Time, once again, to battle the demons by himself.  
  
The crinkly smile gone from his face, the boyish twinkle absent from his eyes, the only only thought that occupied his mind was, we can't afford lose this time.  
  
There was too much to lose this time.  
  
Albus aimlessly wandered around his office, touching various objects on his cluttered desk, running his hand along this bookshelf, then that one. There was nowhere left to run. He was a tired, old bishop, pinned and unable to move for fear of putting his king in check.  
  
Harry.  
  
And as he leaned his forehead against the cool pane of window glass, Albus felt the comatose boy's slow, rhythmic breathing force itself into his wiry, wrinkled body. And he gave himself up to it, letting Harry's life force take him over. Breath in and out and only darkness where sense and understanding should be. And, suddenly, faces and memories from the center of his mind came alive to his inner eye--images and voices long since gone from this world sharing this unending sleep always pervaded by the vilest, foulest unshakable evil.  
  
Twisted playgrounds that kept the boy locked and unreachable.  
  
Lilly. James. How could we lose them? They were just children...  
  
Like smashing into a wall of broken glass, Albus Dumbledore bottomed out into his own body once again. But the chains of memory were still thickly around him. His mind clawed frantically, trying to chase Voldemort back through Harry's breathing, but he was too weak. And instead the end-of-the-year banquet of 1978 shot into his vision and left him breathless.  
  
James and Lily, head boy and girl, cutting like a beacon of hope through the ever-growing darkness of the future. His arm around her shoulders and her eyes with a fierceness that made the entire universe seem to have its center in their irises. Remus, Peter, Sirius, James--the filial hugs they gave to him before they boarded the train. Severus Snape, the carrion crow, passing dark and brilliant eyes over the scene and murmuring in a voice too old for his years, like rapturous thunder, "May your memories sustain you." And they had shrugged it off as he turned and boarded. Albus' laughter echoing over the children's.  
  
None of them knew. The last time they would all be together.  
  
They had been his children.  
  
It was over and Albus turned his face to commingle the sweat on his cheek with the condensation on the window. Panting, he sunk onto the window seat. This waking dream destroyed him every time it invaded his mind. But he craved it. Craved James Potter's laugh and Lily Evan's confiding kiss on his cheek.  
  
He had loved them too much. Used their childish affection to fill up too many empty spaces inside himself.  
  
And Voldemort had known. And that was why James and Lily were dead. That was why their son was dead to the whirlwind that beat itself out around his hospital bed.  
  
Albus had always wanted a family. Children to look up to him and trust him. And when he recognized that look in James' eyes...he'd given in.  
  
He had loved too much.

And now the world was paying.

"It's not my problem."  
  
Sirius Black was no stranger to indifference or even coldness. After time in Azkaban, nothing should surprise him, nothing get under his skin.  
  
Her eyes. Her voice. Her young body under his--taking all of it away from him. Making him whole again.  
  
Pure.  
  
He'd long since stopped censoring his emotions and his outbursts--he was too afraid that if he didn't taste them, experience them, show them to the world--someone would snatch them away from him.  
  
And he would be left alone. But aren't you already?  
  
He wasn't a real person to anyone in his life. Either a criminal or a pitiable innocent. But she'd spoken to him without first thinking of sparing his feelings, or entangling herself in condemnations.  
  
She'd washed her hands clean of all of it. And it had been so long since Sirius had seen anything clean standing so proudly in front of him.  
  
His black muzzle snuffed along the crease where the cool, stone paved floor met the wall. Padding silently through the corridors at night was the only way he could gather his thoughts. He tried to think about Harry-- exhausting every pathway and option of rescuing his godson from the force that held him suspended in an enchanted limbo. How he didn't really even know Harry, didn't know what phantom anxieties and frivolous passions were dancing with him in his continuous sleep. He tried to think about ripping into Voldemort--tearing him, making him bleed for every injustice, every crime committed--  
  
Her eyes. Her face. Her smooth and trembling limbs.  
  
The sound of cautiously swishing robes rapidly approaching from behind him caused Sirius to scuffle into the shadow of a rusting suit of armor, tucking his clumsy tail underneath him.  
  
"Granger! Are you here?"  
  
Draco Malfoy.  
  
Every muscle in his canine body taut with quivering rage, Sirius forced back a growl. He hated Slytherins. All of them. Hated them for their cunning, for their cowardess, for their never-ending quest to win. Hated them for their patience and calculated control. Hated the familiar way in which this particular brat addressed the luminous girl who came into view at the sound of her name, her path bringing her to a patch of candlelight that made her into a goddess-child.  
  
"You asked me to be here, Draco, and here I am. Merlin knows I have no idea why, though."  
  
Draco stepped forward and handed her a shimmering onyx envelope. With some trepidation Hermione reached out her hand to accept what he offered, but stopped just short of touching the letter. Draco took her hand in his free one and clamped her fingers down on the smooth, pulsing paper.  
  
"Believe me Granger, you're going to want this."  
  
_Drop it, Hermione_, Sirius mentally urged.  
  
Apparently unable to speak, Hermione's eyes absorbed the ever changing sheen of the envelope she held. Then they narrowed and she raised her head to meet Draco's knowing and solemn stare.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Why, what? Why Now? It would look a tad odd if you got yours at Breakfast with the rest of us."  
  
"No. Not that. That makes perfect sense. What I meant was, why me?"  
  
At this, Draco looked down at the toe of his perfectly polished shoe jutting out from under the hem of his robe. He looked unsure of himself, and as if he was going to give her an honest answer, but then the coldness rushed back into his sallow features and he smirked back up at her, "So many questions, Mudblood. That won't last long."  
  
Inside, Hermione quivered with fear and shot nerves, but she matched Draco's affected poise ounce for ounce. "Are you just scared that you don't have the answers, Draco?"  
  
Draco gave her a slightly seductive smile. This was a game he was familiar with--sparring. He couldn't deal with honest questions, but stinging barbs intended to fluster him only put him in his element. "Hermione, if you think the scariest thing that can happen is not knowing the answers, you've got another thing coming."  
  
Then Draco gave a small bow, turned, and swirled off in a way that only Slytherins could hope to perfect.  
  
Alone, confused, and suddenly cold, Hermione couldn't imagine anything nearly as frightening as being as in-the-dark as she was at that very moment. She took a few shaky steps forward, passing the suit of armor behind which Sirius hid, ready to pounce on young Malfoy if he dared make another appearance.  
  
What could that rat have wanted with Hermione?  
  
Letting out a deep breath, Sirius made ready to transfigure back into human form. Startled by the sound, Hermione jumped slightly, glanced around her in a panic, and took off running down the hall. In a flash, Sirius Black was once again a large, dark man, pumping his arms as he sprinted to catch up with Hermione.  
  
She sharply rounded a corner, and he turned after her to see the heavy castle door close behind her black school robes. He was about to throw it open again, knowing he could easily catch up with her out in the open Hogwart's grounds, when a firm, icy hand clamped down on his shoulder.  
  
"Black."  
  
The coldness in the touch and voice alerted Sirius to their owner without even having to turn around. He growled out, "Snape! Let go of me, god dammit! Hermione Granger just ran out of the castle--"  
  
A complete opposite to Black's edgy, anxious, raised voice, Severus replied in a tone that bespoke complete control, "I'm well aware of the situation. I would suggest--"  
  
"Don't give me your Slytherin-sweet-as-strychnine routine, Snape."  
  
Severus Snape cocked an eyebrow, either impressed or amused by the unexpected burst of critical creativity on Black's part. His face broke into a candidly evil smile, "Harry needs you, Sirius."  
  
If Sirius Black had been one iota less grateful to Dumbledore, or one more certain of his abilities to defeat his old school-rival, Severus Snape would have certainly been dead on the floor of the front corridor. As it was, Sirius simply spat out some choice profanities as he wrenched himself away from Snape's politely solid hold on his shoulder.  
  
Prudently allowing himself only a few extra seconds to gloat over his banishment of Black, Severus Snape couldn't help smirking for a moment before his countenance was clouded over by anxiety. He hastily opened the front door and slipped into the night.

More than one life hung in the balance.

_How far? How far can I get before anyone notices that I'm gone?  
  
_Hermione's lungs felt ready to collapse. Each and every breath felt as if she was scraping her throat raw. Finally she saw the gate.  
  
Salvation.  
  
She tried to latch, but her hand passed completely through it, rendering it useless. Climbing over it also proved impossible, as did walking directly through it. _Of course it's enchanted...why didn't you think of that before, smartass?_

What she really wanted to do was give in to hysterics. To stomp her feet and break her Mother's good china as she had when she'd been informed that her presence was required at the infamous double-date. But, lacking the necessary energy, she simply turned her back on the gate and slumped against it, relenting to her obvious fate with a heart, "Well, fuck me hard."  
  
From the misty darkness in front of her, she hear a low chuckle, "Was that directed at someone in particular, Miss Granger?"  
  
Professor Snape. In spite of the extraordinary current situation, the only thing she could think to say to him was, "I'm sorry I haven't gotten around to thanking you for the book yet--it was...quite thoughtful. Everyone else seemed to quite forget I had a birthday this year."  
  
Severus made a motion to wave off her apology with a 'never mind', but he was struck with the lack of self-pity in her voice. "Your parents?"  
  
"I'm not quite sure they even remember they have a daughter," a long pause, "but I suppose that's partly my fault...I've been letting myself drift away from them for seven years."  
  
Her first inclination was to look at the ground when she told him this. He was her professor, after all, and neglecting your parents wasn't usually an admission you were proud to claim ownership of. But, for some reason, she looked right at him.  
  
As if reading her mind, Snape took a step forward, asking, "What brought on this sudden confession, if I may be so bold?"  
  
Hermione shrugged and held out the envelope, "When you find out you're going to be a Death Eater, you don't really have the heart to worry about embarrassment, I suppose."  
  
"I suppose," Severus echoed, carefully watching Hermione's face as he took the envelope from her, "So, you know what this is then."  
  
"Oh, I have a pretty fair idea. You can open it if you want."  
  
Snape's careful fingers moved to unglue the seal, but as soon as he touched the skull holding the envelope closed, he dropped it with a cry and clutched his hand as if he'd been burned. Hermione rushed forward to help him, but he warded her away, "No! No, I'm fine. Just a shock. It must be coded so that you have to open it."  
  
"Is that normal?"  
  
Severus was amazed by the girl who stood in front of him. What kind of creature was she? Not a child, that was for certain. She'd held off on opening the envelope, and now she'd stopped running away and had the presence of mind to ask an investigative question. And in the course of an hour she could be broken for eternity...  
  
"I don't know, Miss Granger. I never opened anyone else's summons."  
  
Hermione stared at the envelope that now illuminated a small patch of the ground where it lay between them. Doesn't there always seem to be something between us? _A table, a book, Harry... _

Why did the distance between them suddenly matter to her?  
  
"Professor? Draco said there would be others..."  
  
Snape's head jerked up and he rushed towards her, taking her by the shoulders and probing her eyes with his own, "Who? Who, Miss Granger? Did he say?"  
  
Hermione's brown eyes didn't know how to react to the sudden rush of emotions he had assaulted her with. "I--I don't...I got the feeling they were all other Slytherins..."  
  
Before she could stammer out any more half-answers, Severus Snape dropped his hands listlessly to his sides. "Yes...of course. What other house? What other head of house..."  
  
He turned from her and gazed at the moon, shining as if all was right with the world. Tentatively, Hermione stepped to his side and placed her hand on his shoulder, squeezing the slightest bit--just as she remember her father doing as she left for her first trip on the Hogwarts Express. "Sir?"  
  
"Virgo? You are a Virgo, are you not, Miss Granger?" Confused, but knowing her professor probably had a good reason for his question, Hermione nodded. Then, realizing he couldn't see her gave a soft, "Yes, sir. I am."  
  
"Virgoans...the Zodiac's purists."  
  
"You mean...like the virgin?"  
  
He sighed, his tense shoulder relaxing as he slipped, once again, into the role of teacher. "Yes, and no. The original symbol of Virgo was the Sphinx--Virgoans are the questioners, the analysts--logical, practical, methodical. Born to seek complete realization of the soul. Theorists, perfectionists with a masterful sense of duty. Always the need to serve, be useful--they shrivel when they're swept aside. Innate refinement, nervous sensitivity, thrifty with love...does this strike a chord, Miss Granger? Do you see yourself?"  
  
Unnerved by the accuracy of his description, Hermione remained silent. It was just a silly category--one's sign. But wasn't that her? She searched her mind frantically, trying to recall other virgos that she knew--trying to prove the stars wrong.

_But even if they are wrong--he knows who you are...  
_  
"Do you believe we live our lives by the stars, Miss Granger? That the position of the celestial bodies when we're born keep us trapped inside our own small boxes for eternity? That there is no escaping the person you were born to be?"  
  
"I don't really know sir."  
  
"Nor I, Miss Granger."  
  
The stars seemed to shine brighter, as if they knew they were being watched. A small man an a smaller girl on the desolate planet of here-and-now, both a great deal more frightened of the darkness inside themselves than of the evil that now sat in their midst. Hermione removed her hand, only to wish she hadn't because she suddenly felt very alone. To break her isolation she asked, "And you are...?"  
  
"Hmmm?"  
  
"What sign are you, Sir?" Chastising herself, she blushed, hoping he was unfamiliar with the infamous muggle pick-up line.  
  
He turned to her, frame outlined by the pale moonlight, blessing her with a rare, sad smile. "What else? Scorpio."  
  
At this it was Hermione's turn to smile, although hers had a seriously sinister edge to it, "Ah...the sign of sex and death?"  
  
And then it happened--a real laugh from Severus Snape.  
  
Oddly, Hermione felt like a hero in that moment when he threw back his head and slightly squinted his dark eyes.  
  
"Indeed. I hope they put that on my grave."  
  
Severus looked down at Hermione, not missing the proud flush that touched her cheeks. He had not had a conversation that lasted this long in...years, really. Well, unless one counted Poppy's unending inquiries into his physical health. Then Hermione's eyes darted to the ground, coming to rest on the envelope. Softly, in a ragged whisper, "Dark...what exactly does it mean for magic to be dark?"  
  
Instead of granting her an answer, Snape turned away from her, walked past the envelope, still glowing ominously on the ground, and spoke in a voice so fatherly that it made Hermione homesick for the first time in her life, "You should open your letter now, Hermione." Barely registering that he'd used her first name, Hermione walked over to the envelope and, rather than lifting it to her, knelt next to it. Professor Snape stood with his arms crossed over his chest and his back to her, obviously waiting for her to open the letter and read it aloud. No longer able to delay the inevitable, Hermione tore open the seal as if she could destroy the message it contained.  
  
And then the light shot into her body.  
  
Fresh and deep and aching. Splintering her bones and peeling away the sinew of each muscle like husks from corn. Images, faces and yearnings sparked in front of her eyes, obscuring the envelope, Professor Snape, Hogwarts in the distance.  
  
There was only the pain and the simple, unending need for it to stop, for it to keep going, for it to do both at once.  
  
_Let it be, girl, let it be._

Severus Snape counted the seconds after he turned his back on Hermione Granger. he couldn't watch--not so much because he didn't want to see her pain, but because he couldn't bear to think that he, himself, must look just as vulnerable when he was cursed.  
  
He knew it was coming. He didn't tell her. You can't shield her from the darkness anymore, Severus.  
  
A cry barely recognizable as human shocked him into turning to face her.  
  
Her hands groped feebly at the empty air in front of her, then flew to her throat where she ripped at her robes, and after to tangle in her hair. Her eyes went hazy and out of focus, seeing treacherous epiphanies of some world not so very far from his own. Her mouth opened and she tried to scream, but the sound choked in her throat. A pilgrim saint in ecstasy.  
  
The pure Virgo pinned inside the darkness looping through her supple young body. so many dreams, so many fears. So much more to feed upon. He was frightened to touch her. He was a recovering addict confronted with the sight of a new user on a fantastic trip. He wanted to steal the pain from her and take it into his own body--and only partly to relieve her anguish. As it was, his concern overwhelmed his control and he ran to where she knelt, wrapping both of his arms tightly around her, unconsciously burying his face in her hair more deeply than was truly necessary. Almost as if being fed words from some distant god of mercy, Severus began to murmur small, solid phrases of comfort to the spasming and trembling girl.  
  
When she awoke to the world, she was too weak to do anything but collapse back into his firm hold. Severus made their contact as impersonal as possible, but he figured that the intensity of the situation made it acceptable to put off sorting out their close proximity at some later time. Sweat coating her shimmering skin, Hermione flashed open her eyes long enough to roll them back to Snape and choke out, "Professor, I'll do it. End it. I will. I promise I'll end it all."  
  
Promises. Severus hated them all. Perhaps the ones that were kept even more than the ones that were broken.  
  
But if she was willing to pledge herself, then he would too. "This ends. Right here. It's over."  
  
The dark night gave no recognition to his words, but the simultaneous chill that cut through both of their bodies convinced him that he'd not spoken in vain. 


	8. Chapter 8

Never Make Promises  
  
Chapter 8

By Elizabeth Sofia

Disclaimer: If I knew how to make a profit off of this, I probably would. But I don't, so you shouldn't worry

The faces at the head table had been grim all year. But as owl after owl arrived at the Slytherin table during breakfast, the Hogwarts' faculty grew ever more somber. A tense look flashed between Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall. Professor Sprout gasped at the sight of each silvery envelope.  
  
_Just let any of them try and say anything_, Severus Snape snarled mentally. He bent low over his coffee and tried not to seem moved by the situation, but his cheeks burned with shame. No matter how many times he tried to tell himself that it had everything to do with family lines and nothing to do with his personal guidance, he couldn't escape the fact that owls were not dropping summons onto the Hufflepuff table.  
  
Vincent Crabbe. Gregory Goyle. Millicent Bulstrode. Draco Malfoy.  
  
He checked them off, one by one. He remembered calling those names on their first night in Hogwarts' castle, registering each snotty little face. And here they were, all grown up and ready to slaughter. What a proud day for Slytherin.  
  
Severus noticed, with a sick sort of amusement, that Pansy Parkinson had not received a letter. She was visibly distraught, alternately gaping at her house mates and staring into her pumpkin juice. When Draco raised a cooly questioning eyebrow in her direction her face reddened and crumpled. Pansy was nearly in tears when a final owl swooped into the great hall and deposited an envelope.  
  
Pansy Parkinson.  
  
All present and accounted for.  
  
Except...  
  
Blaise Zabini was quietly spreading marmalade on a piece of toast, paying as little attention to his fellow seventh-years as possible.  
  
And Severus was immediately shot back in time two years--to the night he caught Zabini wandering around the corridors, muttering to himself.  
  
Much in accordance with his students' perception of him, Professor Severus Snape liked to dole out punishment. It broke the monotony. And so when he heard Zabini approaching he had simply waited. As the boy passed him by, completely missing his lean, dark form in the shadows, Snape had reached out an arm and grabbed him by the shoulder.  
  
"Mr. Zabini," The name was bitten off crisply in the hope of startling the boy.  
  
"Professor," Blaise Zabini had quietly regarded his head-of-house. No stuttered apologies, no hasty explanations.  
  
"Might I ask why you are out of the dormitory this late at night?" One calm response deserved another.  
  
Zabini had stared at the ground for a few seconds, as if deciding what to say. "I couldn't stand it in there. It's an...an incestuous, ignorant pit."  
  
Severus had felt hope, that long mislaid emotion, flutter against his rib- cage. Still, best not to move too suddenly...  
  
"What exactly do you mean by that, Mr. Zabini?"  
  
"They all sit around, talking about the _revolution_ and the _glorious future_, and not a single one of them can explain how it's actually going to happen. They're so secure with their money, and their ranks, and..."  
  
"Ranks in what, Mr. Zabini?"  
  
Blaise Zabini had met Severus' eyes with a dissatisfied glare, "Look, no one's that daft, Professor. Everyone at this school knows that Draco is poised to become a follower of Voldemort, first-class."  
  
Severus nodded. He'd had to make sure. For all he knew, this could be a test. "And that doesn't appeal to you, Mr. Zabini?"  
  
Zabini had snorted and shaken his head.  
  
"What, are you frightened, Mr. Zambini? No Slytherin ambition?" That syrupy mocking voice. Severus had almost forgone is altogether, but he had to make sure.  
  
"But Professor..._it's not going to work_."  
  
Severus had nodded, stunned that the student's realization. It wasn't a lack of desire for power that kept Blaise Zabini apart from the plottings of his house mates; it was the realization that Voldemort was not going to win. Severus could have cried.  
  
"Besides," Zabini had continued, "My Girlfriend...she's in Ravenclaw. Her parents..."  
  
The boy had trailed off, and Severus had acknowledged his sentiment with a nod. Of course. Love. "Well Mr. Zabini," Severus Snape's voice was not kind, but it was gentler than it had been in years. "The next time I catch you out after curfew, I will be required to take points. And I know it would not be pleasant to have to explain that loss to your fellow students. We shall consider this your warning."  
  
If Blaise Zabini had been surprised at his lack of anger or response to his somewhat personal confession, he hadn't shown it. He'd simply thanked Severus, and continued down the hall.  
  
"Oh, and one more thing Mr. Zabini."  
  
At this, Blaise had stiffened and turned around, obviously expecting some sort of reprimand.  
  
"I do trust you know about the secret room between here and Ravenclaw tower? I greatly dislike having to break apart couples...talking...in the halls."  
  
With that grand concession, Severus Snape had stalked back towards his quarters, leaving a stunned Blaise Zabini in the corridor behind him.

And now, although Zabini was obviously shunned by his house mates, Severus could see him sharing meaningful glances with a dark-haired Ravenclaw.  
  
_Well, there's one less soul on my conscience tonight._

Snape tried to maintain his cynical outlook on the situation, but when the Ravenclaw girl smiled at Zabini and he flushed with pride in spite of his isolation, Severus almost indulged in a smile.  
  
But then his eyes drifted over to the Gryffindor table, a-buzz with whispers and glares directed at the Slytherins. It was obvious that everyone in Gryffindor knew exactly what was going on and was intent on making his or her feelings about the situation known to anyone who cared to listen. Everyone except, of course, Hermione Granger who kept her face buried in a book.  
  
Severus squinted, trying to make out the title. It was too far away to discern clearly. He could have used magic, but it wasn't that important. He wasn't sure why he'd wanted to know, anyhow.  
  
Hermione caught him squinting in her direction and lifted an eyebrow. Severus Snape blinked his eyes and shook his head lightly, pretending he'd simply been staring into space. She stared at him for a moment longer, shrugged, then returned to her book.  
  
"There will be a staff meeting during lunch," Albus Dumbledore quietly informed the head table as he made his way towards the door.  
  
_Why, whatever about, Headmaster?_ Severus longed to ask, his voice dripping with sarcastic innocence.

It galled him that Dumbledore allowed this little charade to play out every year. And it outright infuriated him that no one would actually mention the bloody white elephant planted in the middle of the room.  
  
He idly wondered exactly how violently the tables would turn if he waltzed into the meeting and informed the staff that the Gryffindor Golden Girl had a summons lying in a drawer in her bedside table as well.

"Just look at them. It makes me sick."  
  
Hermione tried to shut out the sound of Ron's angry whisper as she turned another page. _The Master and Margarita_. She hadn't actually absorbed a single sentence from the last three pages, but she figured she'd keep up the facade. Hell, most of her life seemed to be bordering upon lying of one sort or another lately.  
  
"You'd think they'd have a little decency. What with Harry and all..."  
  
At this Hermione snorted into her coffee. This garnered her confused and insulted glares from Seamus Finnegan, who had made the comment, as well as Ron, Ginny, and any other Gryffidnor within earshot.  
  
Hermione sighed, "I'm just saying that Draco and his friends–when they aren't actually trying to cause bodily harm to him themselves–have never seemed very concerned about Harry. Why should they start now?"  
  
If the rest of the table was offended by her lack of outrage, they still couldn't argue with her logic. With some non-committal muttering, everyone went back to eating.  
  
Hermione felt as if she was being watched–and she had a feeling she knew who was doing the watching. A quick glance up to the head table confirmed her suspicions. _What could he possibly want, glowering like that?  
  
_She quirked an eyebrow up at him, a silent question that shot through the space between them. He quickly straightened up and blinked, trying to appear as if he hadn't even been aware he was looking at her.  
  
_Typical._ But Hermione still felt a heady rush of power at momentarily flustering the Potions Master. Or as close to flustering as was possible.  
  
Setting her book down beside the bowl of corn flakes, Hermione propped her elbows on the table and pressed her closed eyelids into the heels of her hands.  
  
Last night had completely drained her. She had touched the envelope and that familiar pain had rushed through her body. Without needing to read the letter, she had know what it said:  
  
__

_Miss Granger,  
  
You have shown your consistent superiority over your peers. Allow me to present you with...An Opportunity.  
  
Your presence and considerable intellect is requested at a gathering, at my residence, on December the Twenty-First. I trust this will give you sufficient time to weigh your...options.  
  
Regards, _

_Lucius Malfoy  
_

The loopy script had embedded itself into her brain, searing every flowy letter with a fresh flash of pain. And then a dazzling scene had played itself out on the back of her fluttering eyelids. She could see the gathering: lush furnishing, music, soft light, laughter.  
  
A circle of eager listeners gathered around her as she wound her mental path down one arithmantic path, then another. Her words were confident, her voice musical.  
  
Even as pain seemed to be turning her body to ash, she had wanted to stay in the image.  
  
But then, as she was willing her entire consciousness to capture her place in the fantasy, she had sensed something. A pungent, malevolent, leering force lurking in the background of the party, the listeners, _her own words_.

Her mind had seemed to turn in on itself, and everything had turned black and rushed away from her, leaving her feeling like a empty shell, with laughter–the most sickening, soul-scorching laughter echoing through her tortured brain.  
  
And as her eyes had flashed open and she snapped to reality once again, it had hit her. That was reality for Harry. That dark, insidious laughter. Over and over.  
  
The pain had no longer seemed to matter, even though residual shocks were causing her to shake like a leaf. The fact that she was collapsed in Professor Snape's lap with hot tears of fear and anguish running down her cheeks seemed unimportant. She had spoken before she had even realized she was forming the words.  
  
_I'll do it._  
  
Gods, Hermione didn't even know what "it" was.  
  
And even if she did, she seemed an unlikely christ-figure, even with Harry out of commission.  
  
After giving her word, Hermione didn't remember much. Given that she had woken up at three o'clock in her own bed, she had somehow gotten back to her room. But she had no recollection of the journey from the front gate to Gryffindor tower. She must have come-to enough to walk herself, because she highly doubted that Snape had carried her. Not only did it seem like a task he would be vehemently opposed to performing, it would have been the shock of the century had any of her house mates had awoken to find the snarling Potions Master in the midst.  
  
With a yawn and a smirk at that image, Hermione returned herself to the present.  
  
Things seemed to have died down a bit, and the conversation among Ron, Ginny and Seamus had half-heartedly turned towards Quidditch. Hermione looked up in time to see the Headmaster say something to the staff and then make his way out of the Great Hall. That was odd. Dumbledore never left meals early. In fact, he could always be counted upon to be the last person to leave the hall, often joining whatever stragglers were left in an extra helping of dessert. Her first year, when Hermione had found herself very much friendless, she had shared several slices of Pumpking Pie and mugs of hot chocolate with Albus Dumbledore. He'd never mentioned her dilemma, simply engaged her in a discussion about Muggle-Wizzard relations. In fact–  
  
Hermione's reverie was interrupted by the sight of Snape moving quickly out of the hall after Dumbledore. His mouth was set in a firm line, but there was an uncharacteristic flush in his cheeks.  
  
Wanting to intercept him, Hermione threw her book into her bag and ran to catch up with his long strides. She had a few questions to ask him.  
  
Upon reaching the door, Snape was nowhere to be seen. A quick glance to the left and right revealed a swish of black robes rounding the corner to the dungeons. _Ah, so he isn't actually following the Headmaster.  
_  
Hermione quickly followed Snape, who stopped abruptly when he heard footfalls behind him. "Yes, Miss Granger?"  
  
His sneering question held none of the understated softness of the tone he'd used last night. Hermione found herself caught off-guard and suddenly realized that she had no idea how she was supposed to bring up the issue she wanted to discuss with him.  
  
"Well...um..."  
  
Severus Snape watched the girl flounder for a few seconds before interrupting. "Miss Granger, I realize that none of your Gryffindor playmates want to make conversation with you, but that is not my concern. Surely you can find someone else to listen to you blather."  
  
Color quickly rose in Hermione's fair cheeks and she could feel it spreading across her face and down to her chest. "That's a tad rude."  
  
Severus could tell that she'd meant to sound biting, but only succeeded in sounded supremely hurt. Perhaps on a better day he'd have apologized, but today was not that day. "Rude. Well, I'm sorry Miss Granger, but I'm afraid I don't have the time this morning to attempt to live up to your expectations of my etiquette. In case you hadn't noticed, I have a few chosen students of my own to worry about."  
  
As Snape turned on his heel and stalked away, Hermione called after him, "Professor, why didn't their summons curse them the way mine did?"  
  
Severus froze mid-step. _Why, indeed?_  
  
He turned back around and met Hermione Granger's eyes across the six-feet of empty corridor between them. She stared back at him, eyes wide and watery and scared. After a minute of silence, he gave her the only answer that came to mind, "I don't know."

Author's Note: So, yes, I have resurrected this fic! Mostly due to the wonderful reviews I received–thank you, everyone, for caring enough about this story to tell me what you thought.


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